


To Form Prayers to Broken Stone

by ASongofIceandHope (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Teacher-Student Relationship, no time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:13:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: Hermione Granger’s goals for the 1953-54 school year at Hogwarts are simple: diligently fulfill her duties as Head Girl, receive superb scores on her NEWTs, and generally keep her nose to herself.Of course, her Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this Tomione fic is pretty heavily AU. Hermione is not a time traveler, but a classmate of McGonagalls. She’s in her seventh year, making her almost eighteen.
> 
> Tom Riddle’s original request to become Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor upon his own graduation from Hogwarts was fulfilled; there’s about a nine year age difference between him and Hermione.
> 
> He’s also going to be a huge asshole in this fic (predictably so).
> 
> I’m also toying around with a plot surrounding Hermione’s background/heritage; there’s a little discussion about it in this first chapter but if y’all hate it I’ll probably just abandon that idea.

_1 September 1953_

Hermione slid quietly into the train compartment where her friend and classmate Minerva McGonagall was sitting. The bright witch was talking energetically to the Gryffindor quidditch captain about this year’s tryouts and their schedule. Minerva was an excellent Seeker and had been part of the team since they were second years. 

“This will finally be the year we beat Slytherin,” Minerva said, her green eyes shimmering with excitement. “I can feel it.” For most of their school career, the House Cup had alluded Gryffindor and the only team that stood in their way time and time again was Slytherin.

Hermione smiled at her friend and cracked open this year’s Transfiguration textbook. It was easy enough for her to drown out quidditch talk, having done so on the train since she first met Minerva and Wesley Wood during their first trip on the Hogwarts Express. The three had become inseparable ever since that first journey, partly due to all of them being sorted into Gryffindor. 

“What’s on the agenda for you this year, ‘Mione?” Wesley inquired when his conversation with Minerva had reached a natural end.

“Oh you know, the usual,” she replied. “I’m going to really crack down on focusing on my NEWTs. I really want to improve my score in Defence Against the Dark Arts—”

A chorus of dreamy sighs and girlish giggles sounded down the train car and Hermione stopped talking and rolled her eyes. It was always the same thing every year.

There was only one individual who would trigger such a response from the female population of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Defence Against the Dark Arts professor Tom Riddle. The wonder-boy professor had been hired upon graduation by Headmaster Dippet, and almost every girl in the school went through a phase of pining after the seemingly unattainable teacher. 

Everyone except Hermione, of course. She’d never really seen the appeal; sure, Riddle had the looks of a Hollywood movie star and his voice was as smooth as silk, but everything about him seemed like a facade. She was certain that she had never seen the man genuinely smile; to her, he seemed like the type who would only crack a grin while witnessing some sort of twisted, sadistic act. Why Dippet had let his soft spot for Riddle dictate his hiring was beyond her. Add in Riddle’s strong bias toward Slytherin and against Gryffindor, and he was firmly at the bottom of Hermione’s favorite professor list. 

“Do you think he enjoys all the attention?” Minerva mumbled to Hermione.

“A man his age? Enjoying attention from hormonal teenaged girls?” Hermione scoffed. “I doubt it. And if he does enjoy all the attention then there’s something seriously wrong with him.” Minerva chuckled softly and sat back in her seat. 

There was a soft rap on the door of their compartment, and Hermione looked up from the fifth chapter of her textbook to find none other than Tom Riddle himself standing outside. 

“Speak of the Devil,” Wesley muttered.

The door slid open and shut and Hermione straightened up slightly in her seat, pretending not to be completely displeased with Riddle’s sudden appearance. “Professor,” she greeted. “To what do we owe this distinct pleasure?” 

“Miss Granger,” Riddle nodded stiffly to her. “Miss McGonagall, Mr. Wood. I was hoping to have a word with our new Head Girl before the train reaches our destination.”

His words reminded Hermione of the shiny new pin on her burgundy sweater. When the spring term had ended last year, she had been almost certain that Minerva would be Head Girl over her, and she had been honestly shocked when the letter came from Headmaster Dippet that she would be assuming the station come autumn.

“Of course, professor,” Hermione smiled forcibly. 

“Alone,” Riddle specified.

Minerva’s brow furrowed at his decision. “Whatever you have to say to Hermione you can say to us,” she said, motioning between herself and Wesley. “We are Prefects, after all.”

Riddle’s gaze snapped to Minerva for a moment and Hermione could have sworn he was glaring at her for such a suggestion. It seemed rude of him to exclude two seventh years who, while Hermione did outrank them, held positions of authority within the student body.

“That is true, Miss McGonagall, but my intention was to divulge some... advice to Miss Granger,” he hummed. “Former Head Boy to Head Girl.”

Both Minerva and Wesley seemed put out by the idea, but Hermione had no immediate reason to be afraid of Professor Riddle. While he had been one of the few professors — if not the only professor — to keep her from answering every question in their class, he had always graded her work in a fair, unbiased manner. Still, Hermione didn’t really trust him; quite the contrary, really. She trusted him about as far as she could throw him, and since Riddle stood at least half-a-foot taller than her, Hermione doubted she could even attempt to pick him up.

“That sounds very kind of you, professor,” Hermione quipped as she rose to her feet, smoothing out her circle skirt. “If you would lead the way?”

Riddle led Hermione out of the compartment and into an empty one. She eyed him wearily as he motioned for her to sit down. He was dressed in muggle clothes; dark brown trousers and a white oxford with a dark green tie and tan cardigan. The look would have made him blend seamlessly into the crowds at King’s Cross, which she imagined Riddle preferred. He seemed like the type that liked to remain inconspicuous.

“So what is it you’d like to tell me, professor?” Hermione inquired.

Riddle sat down opposite her, crossing his legs with a casual grace that seemed well-rehearsed. “I’m going to be honest and frank with you, Miss Granger,” he began. “I was expecting Miss McGonagall to earn the position of Head Girl for this school year. While I’m aware your marks in school have been somewhat better than hers, I fully believed her extracurricular involvement would help her best you.”

Hermione gaped at him for a moment. “Professor, I must say I’m rather offended that you would say such things to me,” she commented, trying her best not to get too angry.

“Well you must learn not to get so offended by others,” Riddle retorted. “As Head Girl, you’ll experience people who don’t want to obey your authority. You’ll turn a corner during your patrols and catch fifth years snogging — or worse — in the hall. The sooner your... sensibilities are not so easily offended the better off you’ll be.”

“I’ve already dealt with such things, professor. It’s as if you’ve forgotten that I was a Prefect?” Hermione pointed out. 

“Something tells me nothing you’ve experienced thus far could prepare you for the year you’re about to have, Miss Granger,” he stated more to himself than to her. His gaze had since fixed on his own hands, and when he looked up at her and their eyes met, Hermione shivered. 

She didn’t know what he meant by what he said, but she didn’t think she wanted to find out. 

“If that’s all, professor...” Hermione slowly rose to her feet.

“Of course,” Riddle motioned toward the door. “Go rejoin your friends. I expect we will be arriving shortly.” He rose to his feet as well and opened the door for her, his broad frame getting perhaps a bit too close for Hermione’s comfort as she slipped out of the tiny space. 

As Hermione made the short trip back to the other compartment, she pondered the strange conversation she’d had with Professor Riddle. He’d never really taken any interest in her before; in fact, if Hermione had heard the rumors of Riddle’s politics correctly, he didn’t even believe she had a place in Hogwarts, since she was a muggleborn. But why did he suddenly feel the need to give her advice? And why did he feel like their relationship was strong enough that she would even bother to take his advice in the first place?

Still, his words made a chill run up her spine. Hermione had been hoping for a peaceful seventh year. But if Riddle was to be taken seriously — and most people did take Tom Riddle seriously — it would be quite the opposite.

“So what did the King of Serpents have to say?” Wesley asked while trying to peel a chocolate frog off the window. 

“Nothing much,” Hermione replied. It wasn’t too far from the truth; Riddle hadn’t said much of substance, at least. “He simply reminded me that there are people at school that likely won’t respect my newfound authority and that I should keep an open mind this year.”

“How tolerant of him,” Minerva rolled her eyes. She too disliked Riddle, perhaps even more strongly than Hermione did. 

When the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Hermione, Minerva, and Wesley climbed into a carriage to make the trip up to the castle. They chatted amongst themselves, discussing classes and fellow students. 

“As long as Riddle doesn’t make us deal with Boggarts in class again, Defence Against the Dark Arts shouldn’t be too horrid this year,” Minerva quipped as the subject was brought up. “Didn’t you think it was funny that he didn’t let us see what his Boggart looked like? He’s the professor, after all; shouldn’t he have made a demonstration?”

Wesley shrugged. “It’s probably something embarrassing, like him going bald or something,” he snorted. Hermione smirked at the mere thought.

*****

“... Albus, are you sure?” Armando Dippet inquired, looking curiously at his distinguished Transfiguration professor. “To even suspect—”

“I don’t suspect, Armando,” Dumbledore stated. “I know it for a fact. The bloodline is purer than we thought, and it still exists despite all other evidence.” 

“And she doesn’t know?” 

“She doesn’t know. And for her own safety, I think it’s best she remain ignorant of the truth,” Dumbledore said. “There will be people who will try to collect her if they knew of her... pedigree. The bloodline is old and nearly extinct, but for some reason the magic reappeared in her.”

“I trust you’ll keep an eye on her, Albus?” Dippet hummed.

“Two eyes, as often as I can spare them,” Albus assured. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” the headmaster sighed. “As far as I’m concerned, this matter of lineage won’t be a problem until it becomes a problem.”

*****

Up in the Gryffindor common room, a muggle radio was playing Nat King Cole’s “Can’t I?” while everyone lounged around after the welcome feast. Hermione was watching as Wesley danced around with some Prewett girl.

“It was smart of you to bring along a radio, Hermione,” Minerva commented. 

“It’s funny how we all can agree on muggle music,” Hermione said.

She could feel Minerva’s analytical gaze locked on her, and Hermione turned to look at her. “What is it?” she asked. 

“You’ve never danced with a boy, have you?” Minerva questioned.

Hermione blushed and looked down at her hands. There were plenty of things she hadn’t done with a boy. In fact, Hermione was about to turn eighteen and she had yet to even kiss a boy. None of them had ever really paid her any mind; she was always the very smart girl in their classes with uncontrollably bushy hair who knew the answer to every question the professor asked. 

“You’ve known me since I was eleven, Minerva,” Hermione sighed. “You know that I’ve never danced with a boy.”

“Well, maybe that will all change this year,” she said optimistically.

As soon as the words left Minerva’s mouth, the portrait guarding the entrance to the common room swung outward to admit a rather cross-looking Professor Riddle.

“Who smuggled that radio into the castle?” He pointed his wand at it and sparks flew up from the metal box, ending the docile tones that had filled the room. Everyone looked around at each other, not wanting to speak up. “It’s against school rules to bring items like that radio with you. Now who brought it with them to school?”

Hermione bit her lip and raised her hand before getting up. “I... I brought the radio, professor,” she admitted. 

“Miss Granger, I must say I’m surprised,” Riddle stated. “Ten points from Gryffindor. And detention with me for a month.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. “A month!” she exclaimed. “But professor—”

“Do you want me to make it two months, Miss Granger? If I were you, I would accept my punishment quietly.” Hermione said nothing more and looked down at her shoes. “Report to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom at eight o’clock tomorrow night. I will not tolerate tardiness. For every minute of my time you waste, I’ll add another week to your detention. Am I understood?”

“Yes, professor,” Hermione mumbled.

Riddle picked up the ruined radio and turned to depart. Wesley scowled behind his back as he breezed through the door, while Minerva rolled her eyes.

“What crawled up his arse and died?” Wesley muttered. 

“One thing’s for sure,” Jack McLaggen grumbled. “Riddle needs to get some. It’s like he gets off on doling out punishments to people!”

“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Hermione quipped. 

“Maybe you should say something to Professor Dumbledore,” Minerva pointed out.

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “That will just make things worse. Besides, I’ve handled much worse than Tom Riddle.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione deals with the first day of classes. Dumbledore uncovers more secrets—some of which could be highly sensitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I’m so glad with the responses this fic has gotten so far; I’m so glad people are enjoying it!  
> A note on last chapter:  
> Someone on FFnet pointed out to me that muggle technology doesn’t work at Hogwarts. I kind of just assumed it made sense that the radio was charmed to work, but if any of you weren’t sure about that, I’m just putting it out there now that it was charmed like Colin Creevey’s camera.

Hermione was used to dealing with bullies like Riddle.

Growing up just outside of muggle London, she always knew she was different. From the moment Hermione had been capable of any sense of self, she knew she didn’t quite fit in with her primary school classmates. Add in eternally bushy hair and — at least as a older child — rather large front teeth, and Hermione had made herself a target for bullies. Boys liked to pull her hair, and a rather cruel girl during year three took distinct delight in kicking her chair out from under her. 

During those days she was grateful for her small family. Hermione was the only daughter of a lowly country gentleman and his Londoner wife. Her father filled his time with a small medical practice he ran in the village near their home, while her mother volunteered regularly at the local parish and even helped her father out when necessary. During the war years, her mother stayed home while her father served as an ambulance driver. By the grace of some form of divine providence, her father returned home safely and still managed to be the cheerful, affectionate father he had been before the war. Hermione’s parents were truly the reasons her formative years hadn’t ended up nearly as disastrous as they could have, and when it turned out Hermione was a witch they were nothing less than excited and accepting of their daughter.

Indeed, her childhood was more than idyllic. It was a happy time, laced with memories of Sunday roasts and sitting on her father’s lap as he read Dickens or Austen to her while her mother quietly sipped tea by the fireplace.

It was the thought of home that helped lull Hermione to sleep that night and out of her rage felt toward Professor Riddle. 

Hermione woke up the next morning with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Unfortunately for her, the first class on her schedule that day was none other than Defence Against the Dark Arts. She wondered what sort of humiliation Riddle had planned for her during class; he was rarely the type to be forgiving and merciful when a student got on his bad side. The lingering thought hung in her head as she got dressed. Once her knee socks were pulled up and she’d slipped her feet into her black loafers, Hermione took a quick glance at herself in the small mirror by her bed.

The image in the reflection was a familiar one; she’d managed to tame her curly locks into a simple plait, though a few small pieces had fallen free and framed her heart-shaped face. Hermione smiled slightly at herself before gathering her bookbag and heading to the third floor.

When she slipped inside the rather barren classroom, Hermione spotted Minerva in the front row. She made her way up the neat aisles of desks to sit beside her friend.

“How long until someone asks if he’s single?” Minerva whispered to Hermione, referring to Riddle’s annual first day of school speech in which he introduced himself and gave a brief overview of the research or travels that occupied his summer. Since third year, at least one girl in their class would ask him whether or not he had finally gotten married.

A sly smirk grew on Hermione’s face. “Well, he best get on it, honestly,” she murmured back. “Why, he must nearly be thirty?”

“Twenty-seven on December 31st, Miss Granger,” Riddle corrected as he walked up to the front of the classroom. “Anymore talk like that today and I will add another week to your detention.” Hermione wanted to bury herself in a hole and die a slow, painful death. Why did Professor Riddle seem so interested in every little thing she said or did? 

Riddle picked up a piece of chalk and began to write on the blank, clean board. In his neat, elegant script, he wrote two words on the board: Unforgivable Curses.

“Professor, are you sure this is an appropriate topic for the first day of class?” a Ravenclaw seated to Hermione’s right questioned. With a graceful pivot from the board, Riddle smiled a cold, clinical smile. Hermione had been thinking the same thing, but considering how cross Riddle had been with her lately she hadn’t dared to speak up. 

“Of course,” he replied. “You’re all seventh years, about to go out into the real world, and I’ve never actually told you lot about the Unforgivables.”

The class was so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

“Can anyone name the three Unforgivable Curses for me?” Riddle asked. 

Hermione hesitated, but raised her hand.

“Miss Granger?”

“The Imperius curse, the Cruciatus curse, and the Killing curse,” she listed. 

Riddle wrote them down on the board and then they all watched as he took a rather large beetle out of a jar on his desk and set it down right in front of Hermione. She gulped, knowing what he intended to do. Demonstration had always been one of Riddle’s favorite teaching tools. 

“Miss Granger, please inform the class what the Imperius curse does.”

Hermione nervously wet her lips before speaking in a shaky voice. “The Imperius curse allows the caster complete control over the victim. You... You could make a person drown themselves if you so wanted, or worse,” she stated. 

“Excellent, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor,” he said. Then Riddle turned his attention to the beetle that was trying to scurry away. “ _Imperio_!” 

The creature froze and then Riddle guided it around the room. “The Imperius curse does indeed give one complete control over your victim. Many people claimed to do Gellert Grindelwald’s bidding simply because they were under the influence of the Imperius curse. Of course, it’s difficult to tell whether or not someone is lying...” he removed the effect of the curse and set the beetle back on Hermione’s desk. “The second curse, Miss Granger?”

“The... The Cruciatus curse is used to torture one’s victim,” she informed. “The pain... most people who survive it say it’s indescribable.”

“Very good,” Riddle glanced at her momentarily before performing the spell on the poor insect.

Hermione cringed as the bug tried to escape the unimaginable pain it was experiencing, crumpling and shrinking under the powerful curse. She felt like she understood its pain simply by watching, so she looked away. Instead, she focused her gaze on Riddle, whose expression was completely impassive save for a slight glimmer in his eyes. When he realized she was staring at him, Riddle stopped.

“The final curse is explanatory,” he said to the class, his voice eerily calm. With more ease and dignity than one should have when performing the curse, Riddle uttered the words.

The flash of green light from his wand struck the beetle and it keeled over.

“Miss Granger, if you would clean that up?” Riddle requested as he straightened his teaching robes and turned back to the chalkboard. Hermione resisted the overwhelming urge to throw the beetle carcass at his back, to tell him that the entire lesson was positively sadistic, but she did not want to spend any more time in detention with him than necessary. 

Using a simple levitation charm, Hermione got up and dumped the beetle into a dustbin before returning to her seat. 

“Well, that is all for today. See you all next session,” Riddle dismissed.

Hermione quickly gathered her parchment and textbooks; she wanted to be out of that classroom as soon as possible. Honestly, the didn’t know how Riddle even slept at night! To perform curses like Unforgivables in front of students — on the first day of term, no less — seemed less like the actions of a diligent professor and more like those of a madman, in Hermione’s opinion. She contemplated informing Professor Dippet about his conduct, but she knew Riddle would be able to talk his way out of whatever sort of trouble he could get in. 

She was almost to the door and thought she was getting out of there without an issue, when Riddle called for her.

“Miss Granger, if I could have a word?” 

Every swear word she knew rolled through Hermione’s mind as she turned around and let the door close as she walked back up to the front of the classroom. “Yes, professor?” She hopes he could hear how impatient she was with him; Hermione had never been one to openly disrespect her professors, but Riddle was testing her patience.

“You disapproved of today’s lesson,” he commented as if he were discussing the weather or Quidditch. 

“I disapprove of any form of dark art,” Hermione said. “Especially when it’s performed by the individual meant to instruct us on how to defend ourselves from such magic. I won’t lie to you, Professor Riddle; I found today’s lesson to be in extremely poor taste. So few of us will ever encounter such magic in the real world; a quick discussion in passing would have sufficed. To make a spectacle of it all...”

“So one could say I offended your sensibilities?” Riddle questioned.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one made uncomfortable by your... demonstration,” Hermione retorted. Her gaze was intensely focused on him, as if she expected her disapproving stare would force him to admit his wrongdoing.

Instead, Riddle began stacking books on his desk and tsk’d at her. “You’re not taking my advice, Miss Granger,” he hummed. “I warned you about letting things offend your sensibilities.”

His response flustered Hermione; surely he hadn’t spent a whole class period lecturing on Unforgivables just to get a rise out of her?

“When you gave me that advice, you presented it in the context of how I deal with my fellow students,” she reminded rather coldly. “Not with how I deal with people who should know better!” Her voice was as shrill as it would be when she’d scold Wesley for some of the more stupid pranks and general hijinks he would cause. The tone caused Riddle to look up at her, a perfectly arched brow raised out of curiosity.

“I never knew you held me in such high regard, Miss Granger,” he said. “You may leave now; I wouldn’t want you to be late for your next class.”

It wasn’t until Hermione was safely in the hall and on her way to Ancient Runes that she realized something rather odd.

Riddle had been... _teasing_ her.

*****

“He performed all three Unforgivables in front of students, Armando! Students!”

Albus Dumbledore was enraged. When the rumor that Tom Riddle had performed the three Unforgivable curses in front of his NEWT students, he’d gone straight to the headmaster. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that such a stunt was something Riddle would do. And while Dippet assured Dumbledore that he understood why he was upset, his defense of Riddle was almost too much.

“Tom has always practiced excellent discretion in the classroom,” Dippet remarked. “If he did indeed perform the Unforgivable curses in front of his students, I’m sure is a justifiable reason.”

“Armando, they’re called Unforgivables for a—”

“I am aware of the laws the Ministry put in place in 1717, Albus,” the headmaster said. “I do not need a history lesson. Now, I understand that, given your tense history with Tom when he was a a student, that working alongside him has proven difficult. But Tom has always been a fine wizard, and a gentleman to boot. That’s all I wish to say on the subject. Now, as for the other matter... the girl.”

Dumbledore nodded and procured an ancient scroll. Written upon the fragile parchment was a great and ancient family tree that reached all the way down to the present day.

“As you can see, there she is,” he pointed to the name of a young woman. “And if you follow her family through her mother’s side... going back many centuries, of course... you reach the undeniable conclusion.” 

Dippet observed the point to which Dumbledore was gesturing. The name, penned in shimmering red ink, while not as famous as her rival’s, was well-known within the wizarding world. 

“‘Morgan le Fay,’” he read. “Sure enough, Albus. Do we tell her?”

“No,” Dumbledore shook his head. “We can’t tell her. Not yet, at least. And no one other than ourselves can be aware of this. Especially Tom.”

*****

Hermione emerged from the dungeons after Potions still feeling shaken up from Riddle’s unconventional and rather cruel lesson. She knew she wasn’t the only one; Minerva had complained to her rather openly as they sat together during Slughorn’s rather dull and predictable opening lecture. 

“Honestly Hermione, he shouldn’t even be allowed to teach!” Minerva exclaimed when they sat down for lunch. “To even think that those spells would be appropriate...”

After taking a sip of her pumpkin juice, Hermione shrugged. “Consider yourself lucky. You don’t have a month’s worth of detention with him,” she reminded. “And all because of a charmed radio! If he knew about the things that some of the Slytherins were charming, he wouldn’t have been half as cross with me for trying to get some good music in this castle!”

It was unusual for Hermione to feel such righteous indignation toward a professor. And when she thought about the fact that she only had to make it to June and then Riddle would be out of her hair forever, she felt... annoyed with herself for allowing him to ruffle her feathers. 

But he’d given her a detention, for Merlin’s sake!

“At least you probably won’t have much to do in detention,” Minerva supplied. “It’s the start of term; he won’t have any first year papers for you to grade or something like that.”

“I’d rather do that than sit in his office with nothing to do,” Hermione grumbled. 

“Fair, but do you know how many girls in this castle would kill to spend a night alone with Professor Riddle?” Minerva teased, earning a chuckle from Wesley who sat down with them just as the words left her mouth.

Hermione didn’t want to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s up next for Hermione? And wow, Riddle’s lesson was... a bit much. It was 100% by Barty Crouch Jr’s lesson that he gave when he was desguised as Moody. 
> 
> Let me know what you all think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione deals with more of the same. Riddle ponders his own motivations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it’s taken so long for this chapter; the end of the semester at uni hit me like a bus, but here ya go! This chapter is also a bit short because I have a bit of writer’s block at the moment that I’m trying to work out.

As Hermione sat and listened to Professor Binns drone on and on, she wondered why in Merlin’s name she’d bothered to sign up for NEWT-level History of Magic. Most of her year had sprung at the chance to drop the course as soon as it was no longer required, but Hermione, ever the over-achiever, had decided to keep her schedule full at all times. And since she didn’t really have any respect for Divination, History of Magic was a fitting substitute. 

It didn’t change the fact that Binns was the driest man Hermione had ever met in her entire life.

Still, the first lesson of the year was proving mildly stimulating, as Binns was lecturing on the time of Merlin and Camelot. Hermione was diligently taking notes on the subject.

“... and some myths even suggest that Merlin was, at one time, seduced by Morgan le Fay. No progeny resulted from this magical union, however, but le Fay is generally accepted to be the mother of Mordred, who, of course, ultimately betrayed and killed King Arthur,” Binns stated. “The only known wizard portrait of Morgan le Fay can be found on page 385 of your textbooks.” 

Hermione contemplated flipping to the page and getting lost in reading, but decided against it; she only had a few more minutes of Professor Binns before she could return to the common room. She needed to have some time to do her work before dinner and the detention that would follow; while she didn’t know what Riddle would have her do she knew it would be inconvenient and bothersome. 

When Hermione reached the welcoming chamber that was the Gryffindor common room and sat down at a table to work, she suddenly felt a touch of self-consciousness. At the other end of the table, a few of the other muggleborn girls in her year were sitting and gossiping about something or other, and their leader smirked in her direction. Hermione knew that she didn’t fit in with them; she didn’t style her hair just so or paint her nails or wear a girdle. It wasn’t like her mother or grandmother hadn’t tried to get Hermione to take interest in more feminine pursuits when she was home for the summer; the truth of the matter was she was quite horrible at all of them. Even when she used magic to help her tame her hair, she didn’t look quite right with a bouffant and red lipstick. It just wasn’t her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t feel insecure when others noticed such things.

“Hey, unless you’re working, go sit somewhere else,” Minerva told the three girls. Unlike Hermione, Minerva just didn’t give a damn about what other people thought.

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled as Minerva sat down across from her and cracked open a Charms book. She was busying herself by flipping to the page in the History of Magic textbook that Binns had said had a portrait of Morgan le Fay. When she did, Hermione notes a passing resemblance to her mother which she found amusing. 

Her curiosity sated, Hermione put the book away and worked on some Ancient Runes until it was time for dinner. 

When she and Minerva reached the Great Hall for dinner, they were quickly joined by Wesley, who took up Minerva’s attention with talk of Quidditch strategy and other things. Hermione picked quietly at her meal as they talked, trying to shake the feeling that someone was staring intently at her. She imagined it was likely Riddle; he was probably contemplating what annoying tasks he would assign to her for the evening. Eventually gathering the courage to look up at the head table, she met his gaze and frowned ever so slightly. 

He motioned for one of the Slytherin prefects to come forward, and he handed the boy a folded piece of parchment. The note, predictably, was delivered straight to Hermione.

_Miss Granger,_

_You’ll be helping me organize my personal library tonight._

_Please don’t look so... displeased with the prospect of spending a detention with me; I could make this far more unpleasant if I so wished._

_Professor Riddle_

Hermione raised a brow; as far as she was aware, not even the Slytherins had been granted access to Professor Riddle’s office. He kept his private life extremely private, as all the students knew, and many were curious as to what he kept locked away in his office. Hermione would be lying if she said she hadn’t been curious as to what volumes he kept in his personal library, but she never thought that she would ever get to find out. Never mind the fact that Riddle had seen it appropriate to finish his note to Hermione with a thinly-veiled threat.

After sharing said note with Minerva and Wesley, Wesley whistled in surprise.

“Well, Hermione,” he hummed. “Looks like you’re going to be the talk of the female population of Hogwarts since you get to be all alone with Riddle in his office tonight.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Because as soon as I’m alone with him I’m going to throw myself at him and beg him to ravish me.” Minerva smirked at her comment. “Besides, of all the girls at this school to have an illicit affair with, you know Riddle would certainly pick the one who doesn’t give a damn about her hair or makeup or whether or not she knows how to put on a girdle.” If Hermione has to guess Riddle’s type, she imagined it was a Lana Turner or Veronica Lake sort of girl; someone painfully glamorous to suit his looks. 

“If he even likes girls,” Wesley muttered. “Always seems like a poof to me.”

Minerva and Hermione both shot him a look. 

“What? I’m just saying,” he shrugged before scooping another helping of potatoes onto his plate. 

“Well, regardless, you’ve got to let us know what he has in that office of his,” Minerva stated. “Curious minds want to know.”

“You know you’ll be the first to hear about how my detention goes,” Hermione assured.

*****

Tom sat back in his chair and watched as Hermione talked animatedly with her two Gryffindor cohorts. He suppressed a cringe when Wesley Wood gazed longingly in Hermione’s direction. Of course, she didn’t notice; Hermione wrongly believed herself to be the least desirable girl at Hogwarts. 

“Tom.”

The hair on the back of Tom’s neck prickled as he heard the familiar and frustrating voice of Albus Dumbledore behind him. It was one thing when Slughorn still called him by his first name as if he were still a student; Slughorn was a bumbling old fool and meant it in an endearing manner. Albus Dumbledore did not.

“Yes?” Tom turned to look at him. 

Twinkling blue eyes gazed at him from behind half-moon spectacles. “I was wondering if you would postpone Miss Granger’s detention this evening,” Dumbledore requested. “I was planning on having her assist me in the Transfiguration classroom.” Tom frowned; Dumbledore had never intervened to keep a Gryffindor from serving detention with him before. 

“I would, professor, but I’ve already given Miss Granger a task to complete for this evening,” Tom replied easily. He could tell immediately that Dumbledore wasn’t happy with his response, but he didn’t rightly give a damn. 

“Very well,” Dumbledore sighed before returning to his own seat closer to Headmaster Dippet.

His request set him on edge for the remainder of the evening. Tom began to wonder; what did Dumbledore know? Surely he hadn’t seen his intentions for Hermione. He kept those thoughts buried deep, especially when around any fellow Legilimens. 

As soon as dinner was over, Tom took his usual walk around the grounds to clear his head. It was easy to get overwhelmed with the mundane routine offered by working at a school; Tom valued his time alone to remind him of why he was teaching in the first place — to recruit. The post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had allowed Tom firsthand access to budding witches and wizards and a great way to measure just how powerful they were. Naturally, most of his recruits to his cause came from his former house, but a few students from the other houses had become intrigued by what Tom was offering. 

Tom was contemplating the next meeting of his followers when he happened upon Professor Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet in what appeared to be an intense conversation. Tom checked his wristwatch and cursed under his breath; as much as he wanted to eavesdrop on the two, Hermione would be arriving at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom very soon. He would have to make his way back. 

Upon reaching his office, Tom took off the cumbersome black teaching robe that he wore and rolled up the sleeves of his white Oxford. Looking around the room, he realized that there would be plenty of work for them that evening; while he kept his classroom meticulous, Tom was prone to a bit of clutter in his personal workspace and it showed through the rolls of parchment and various books strewn about the room. He checked a few of them to make sure they weren’t anything too dark before sitting down at his desk and putting on his reading glasses.

*****

“Hermione, please?” 

“No!”

“Please?”

Hermione was currently putting a table between herself and Lucinda Prewett, who was trying to convince her to let her cast a smoothing charm on her hair and style it before she went to see Riddle for her detention.

“There’s no point, Lucinda,” Hermione huffed. “Why is everyone so excited over my detention with Professor Riddle?”

One of the muggleborns from earlier, Lauren Sutton, rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you seen how he looks at you, Hermione?” she questioned. When Hermione’s brow furrowed, Lauren rose to her feet. “Of course not; why am I not surprised? Professor Riddle has taken quite a lot of interest in you. Why do you think he would wait until your seventh year to do that?”

Hermione thought she was going to be sick. 

“What you’re implying is highly unlikely and also inappropriate!” Hermione exclaimed. “Professor Riddle, while admittedly young and at times unconventional, is nothing but professional and he would never allow himself to fancy a student!”

“We’re not saying he fancies you,” Lucinda hummed. “Honestly I think Riddle is incapable of actually fancying anyone, but we’re all in agreement that he’s curious about you for some reason.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest.

“So you want me to try and seduce a professor to find out if your silly assumptions are true or not?” she raised a brow at the two girls who were slowly approaching her.

“Not at all,” Lauren assured. “We just want you to give him something new to look at and see if that gets a reaction out of him.”

“The answer is no,” Hermione sighed. Off in the distance, the clocktower chimed, signaling that it was eight o’clock. “Merlin’s beard! I have to go!” She ran out of the common room and sprinted as fast as she could toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. All the way there, Lucinda and Lauren’s words rang in her head; the ridiculousness of them thinking that Professor Riddle fancied her made her stomach clench — and not in a good way. The last thing she needed before moving on from her years at Hogwarts was a suspicion that one of her teachers fancied her. 

When she reached the classroom, Hermione knocked three times on the door. The wards slipped out of place and Hermione let herself in, steeling her nerves as she made her way to the front of the classroom and mounted the stairs that led to Riddle’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the detention! What sort of evening will Tom and Hermione have? 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione’s detention doesn’t go quite as planned. Tom puts his inner circle to work on a very important mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Here’s the long awaited detention chapter. I hope you all enjoy it.

“You’re late.”

The short, quipped sentence made Hermione cringe. She was three minutes late, which meant three extra weeks of detention. Riddle wasn’t the kind of professor who threw out hollow threats just for the sake of getting students to take him seriously; whatever he said, he meant. 

“I know,” Hermione sighed. “I apologize.” 

She took a moment to survey her surroundings. Riddle’s office was similar to other professors’, albeit more cluttered. Hermione noted a small black book on the corner of his desk that was embossed with his name in gold print. It was peculiar; she had never taken Riddle to be the type to keep a diary. He noticed her curiosity and subtly picked the book up, tucking it away into a drawer. Hermione looked at him briefly, noting his reading glasses with a small smirk. So the ever so desirable Professor Riddle had one little flaw.

Riddle rose from his seared position and stretched slightly. “Well, let’s begin,” he stated. They walked over to one of the larger bookshelves. “I like my collection to be organized by year and author, so chronologically and alphabetically within the year.”

Hermione noted that she organized her bookshelves back home in a similar manner, but brushed the observation aside.

They worked side-by-side well into the late hours of the night; Hermione had managed to organize all of Riddle’s late medieval texts by the time they were through for the night. Riddle was pleased by her dedication to the task at hand. She’d even demonstrated a talent for quick rune translation and had put those books in the appropriate places according to the year they’d been published. 

“I suppose you want to see me the same time tomorrow?” Hermione inquired in passing. 

She grabbed a book off of Riddle’s desk that he hadn’t managed to translate yet; he had considered it safe as he hadn’t detected any curses on it. But when Hermione’s hand grazed the book’s spine, she tensed. Her free hand flew to her temple, and her eyes seemed to roll back before she fell to her knees.

“Hermione!” Riddle exclaimed, immediately probing the book to see if there was some curse he had missed and therefore figure out the counter curse he’d have to perform. 

But, like before, there was no trace of any sort of spell on the book.

So like the great Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor he was, Riddle began to perform a spell in order to examine Hermione and find out what had seemingly possessed her. Nothing came back, and when he stepped away from her the strange trance that had overtaken her came to an end. 

“Her—Miss Granger,” Riddle schooled his features to hide just how concerned he’d been about her. “I’m afraid I can’t explain what just happened to you.” 

“I... I was flying,” she mumbled softly before remembering just who she was with. “What book was that? What is it about?” The moment she was gone had felt like an eternity; she hadn’t seen anything, but she was surrounded by a sensation that had felt like flying. It was one of the more peculiar magical experiences Hermione had had in her time at Hogwarts. 

Riddle sat down on the corner of his desk. “I admit I cannot say,” he told her. “I had checked the book upon purchasing it for any curses or spells and it seemed safe.”

Hermione scowled at him. “What kind of man buys a book before knowing what it’s about?”

Riddle’s eyes flared a bit at her insult, Hermione noted, but he was quick to pivot the conversation away from anything that could possibly be his fault. “Do I need to take you to the infirmary?” he asked. While the suggestion was that of someone who cared about her, Hermione recognized a slight dismissive tone to his question. He probably wished for her to leave so he could start being responsible and find out just what that book was about. 

“No, I’m fine,” she assured. “I’m just going to head back to my dormitory.”

*****

“... You can imagine our alarm when Tom informed us of what happened last night.”

Hermione found herself sitting in the headmaster’s office the following morning. Headmaster Dippet was looking at her with evident concern, while Professor Dumbledore was clearly curious about what had happened the night before. Looking back and forth between the two, Hermione gauged her words carefully before speaking again. 

“Honestly, headmaster, I’m fine,” she said. “Nothing a good night’s rest didn’t fix.”

“Well, regardless we have taken some precautions,” Dumbledore stated. “Your detentions with Professor Riddle are, as of right now, cancelled. Riddle will also turn in the book—”

A soft knock on the door drew their attention to the aforementioned professor who was entering rather sheepishly. Hermione recognized the book in his hand as the very same that had caused her to faint the night before and watched as he set it down on the headmaster’s desk. There was a part of Hermione that suspected that the copy he was setting down on the desk was just that: a copy. Riddle prized his books just as much (if not more) than Hermione herself and she found it hard to imagine that he would part with such a fascinating tome—especially when he had yet to unlock its secrets. 

“Are you alright?” Riddle asked, drawing Hermione’s attention away from the book. He looked slightly disheveled, as if he hadn’t slept well the night before. His usually flawless complexion was slightly off as well; he had dark circles under his eyes. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” Hermione’s reply was short and clipped, but polite.

She was beginning to think that something was distracting Riddle from performing his job properly. Between his distasteful lesson on the first day and his seemingly sloppy failure to recognize the dangers of the book he had turned in to Headmaster Dippet, he seemed lacking. Hermione wondered what was distracting Riddle. She knew that he spent most of his summers tracking down magical artifacts; perhaps he had discovered something that summer that had him shaken up. 

“Well, since everything has been handled, I suppose I’ll let you get down to breakfast,” Dippet clapped his hands together and dismissed Hermione. 

As soon as she reached the hallway outside the entrance to the headmaster’s office, Hermione could tell that Riddle was following her. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to her on a normal day; he was likely heading to breakfast same as she. But considering everything that had gone on over the past few days, she didn’t like that he was so close to her. He seemed to sense how tense she was and breezed past her. When he did, a small piece of parchment materialized in her hand. Before Riddle could disappear from sight, Hermione pulled her wand out of her robes and charmed the note to hover above her hand.

“ _Incendio_!” She cast the spell loud enough so Riddle could hear.

He stopped in his tracks, freezing just a minute as the little note burned to ashes before continuing on his way.

*****

Tom was relieved that he was still in close contact with his Knights. Of course, his larger circle of sycophants had begun to style themselves as “Death Eaters,” but his inner circle still was often referred to as the Knights of Walpurgis despite the fact that they all had been out of school for a long time and the group had been unofficially dissolved. But that didn’t stop Tom from summoning them all to The Three Broomsticks that night. He was grateful for the time he’d spent researching magical branding, for it made summoning them all quite easy. 

After Tom had touched the mark on his own forearm—a slight variation on the ones that marked his followers as he based his on the statue of Salazar Slytherin within the Chamber of Secrets — the seven men that made up his inner circle apparated into the private room on the second floor of The Three Broomsticks. 

“My Lord,” they all knelt out of respect and bowed their heads.

“Rise,” Tom ordered. “I imagine you all are wondering why I summoned you this evening.”

None of the men spoke. Avery exchanged glances with Abraxas Malfoy, but other than that, they simply waited for Tom to continued to speak.

“I’ve summoned you all because I have a mission for all of you,” he informed. “I’m under the impression that Dippet and Dumbledore have been keeping secrets concerning one of my students. You are to find out everything you can about her family; where they come from, how far they can trace their lineage back, where her father went to school, what kind of tea her mother likes to take in the afternoon. You will learn everything about them and report back to me whenever you learn something that might be of interest.”

“My lord, this wouldn’t be that mudblood, would it?” Abraxas drawled. Tom looked at him, trying to mask his frustration with Abraxas. “Because I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s become a bit annoyed with your... fixation on her.”

The distinct pleasure Tom drew from watching Abraxas wince as he drew his wand was intoxicating. “Miss Granger is indeed a muggleborn, but I would remind you, Abraxas, that magic is might. I can recognize a talented witch or wizard when I see one, and Miss Granger’s abilities are nothing short of exceptional,” he hummed. “And the very issue of her birth is a reason why we ought to recruit her; the presence of a muggleborn amidst our ranks will make us appear more tolerant of those without distinguished bloodlines.” He sat down in one of the wingback chairs that furnished the quaint room, crossing his legs with a casual ease. “You all will report back to me in two weeks’ time. By then I hope to have discovered what Dippet and Dumbledore are keeping to themselves, and hopefully you lot will have made yourselves useful and uncovered more information for me.”

Lestrange was clearly growing impatient, and while Tom knew a simple Cruciatus would put him in his place, he found it was sometimes hard to shake the democratic nature of the classroom, even when dealing with his sycophants.

“I just don’t see why you wouldn’t slip a bit of veritaserum in the girl’s morning pumpkin juice,” he huffed. “Or invite her for tea. Why do we have to learn all of this?”

“Because, Lestrange, the usage of veritaserum on a student is highly illegal,” Tom explained. “And while Slughorn is a man easily swayed to do my bidding, he is not the type to keep a secret and Dumbledore would likely hear of my acquiring such a potion. Also, I intend for Miss Granger to become one of us when she graduates from Hogwarts; it will be crucial for you all to present yourselves in a polite and dignified manner. Can’t have her thinking we’re a bunch of thugs and criminals.” 

A few of the men snickered at his concern, as if Tom Riddle hadn’t broken plenty of wizarding laws in his lifetime. 

“Am I understood, then?” Tom rose to his feet and smoothed his robes. It was getting late and there would be too many questions if he delayed his return to the castle much longer. His Knights all nodded and apparated as soon as they were dismissed. 

Tom himself began the walk back to the castle in reflective silence. Hermione’s action of burning his note earlier that day played through his mind over and over again; he didn’t know why she had such a vehement dislike for him. It wasn’t as if he had given her an unreasonable detention for getting caught with that charmed radio, and the task they’d undertaken that evening in his office had been more than a fair punishment. Perhaps she was still upset because of the book; he understood why she would be hesitant to trust him after the incident, but surely he believed her when he said he’d checked the volume for curses upon purchasing it? What did she think he was; an utter slouch? 

It was nearly eleven when Tom entered the castle, which meant whichever prefects that were on duty would be finishing up their rounds. He quietly began to make his way up to his quarters, reaching the third floor only to run into the very student that had been on his mind.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted.

“Professor,” Hermione spoke his title through grit teeth. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just finishing up my rounds.”

“Of course, of course,” Tom stepped out of her way.

Hermione was almost to the end of the Hall when she stopped and pivoted sharply on her heel. Tom watched as she strode purposefully toward him. 

“That book you have the headmaster... it a copy, wasn’t it?” she questioned seemingly out of the blue. Tom was also taken aback by her accusation, though it certainly wasn’t out of character for her. 

“What makes you think that, Miss Granger?”

She crossed her arms defensively, as if she didn’t wish to explain her logic to him. Still, Tom knew she was never one to refuse a chance to display just how clever she was. “Well, you’re the sort who wouldn’t be content with turning something like a book in without having still having access to it, especially when you don’t know what the book is truly about,” she explained. “Furthermore, you witnessed something rather... bizarre occur when a student touched the book even though you claim to have checked it for curses and hexes and the lot. With that in mind, I surmised that you wouldn’t be able to ignore the book if you tried.” 

“Clever girl,” Tom complimented. “Would you like to find out if you’re right?”

Hermione hesitated. He could tell she thought that the question was some sort of trap, but she clearly couldn’t figure out why.

“It’s simply an invitation up for a cup of tea, Miss Granger,” he assured. She raised a brow at him, but uncrossed her arms.

“Lead the way, professor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Tom is definitely curious to the point of seeming a bit obsessive...   
> would you say that’s in character? And do you think their evening tea is going to be a disaster? Let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Hermione take tea. Some of the book’s mysteries are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

Hermione followed Riddle into his private quarters. Unlike his office, the rooms allotted to him were rather tidy and spartan in nature; the sitting room was furnished with the basics which were all upholstered in a dark green damask. Riddle motioned for her to sit on the sofa while he summoned a house elf to bring them tea. She noted that he was unusually polite to the house elf and raised a brow. Given the rumors of Riddle’s politics, Hermione hadn’t taken him for the type to treat house elves with respect. 

Riddle sat down opposite her in a wingback chair. The house elf returned with tea and a few biscuits. Hermione took a chocolate one and nibbled on it as Riddle poured himself a cup of tea. 

“You are correct that I merely turned in a copy of the book to Headmaster Dippet,” he admitted as he stirred one lump of sugar into his tea. “After the strange occurrence the other night, I couldn’t keep myself from wanting to discover the secrets the book contained.” Riddle suddenly rose to his feet and strode into a room just off the sitting room; Hermione’s eyes followed him and caught a glimpse of his bedroom. He returned with the book in his hands. “Whatever this book is, it’s about a very rare and very old form of magic.”

“What kind?” Hermione cursed her own intellectual curiosity as she moved to sit right next to him in the matching wingback chair. 

Riddle smiled slightly at her. It was a surprisingly easy smile. “It’s some sort of ancient magic that’s rooted into nature and whatnot,” he explained. “I haven’t translated the rest of the book, but I spent the evening translating the title and, surprisingly, a table of contents and that’s what I could tell from that information.” 

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued. If Riddle wasn’t familiar with the magic mentioned within the book, then certainly it had to be a form of magic lost to time. 

“So it’s very ancient magic,” she said aloud. “The kind that likely dates back to the Founders, if not predates them. Its roots are likely Celtic, then. That would also explain why it’s written in runes. Does the book give any clue as to when or where it was written?” Riddle’s smile grew and Hermione realized she had asked the right question, though the glint in his eyes did not set her at ease. There was always something sinister to the glint in his eyes.

“That’s perhaps the most peculiar thing I could derive,” he stated. “The book was written on the Isle of Avalon.”

If she had been struck by lightning that very moment, Hermione would have been less surprised than when Riddle revealed where the book had been written. The Isle of Avalon was famous in the wizarding world and the muggle world alike; it was the final resting place of King Arthur and home to none other than...

“Professor, do you think this book could have been written by Morgan le Fay?” she inquired. 

Riddle lifted his teacup to his lips and took a sip before saying, “Well it’s quite possible, isn’t it? But why, then, would a book written by one of the greatest Dark witches in the history of the wizarding world choose you, Miss Granger?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Hermione admitted truthfully. “Perhaps she charmed it so no one from her rival’s house could learn all of its secrets.”

She watched as Riddle set his teacup down on a small side table and ran a hand through his hair. It was no secret that Riddle was proud of having been a Slytherin during his time at Hogwarts; he’d brought the snake house a great deal of prestige and respect, not unlike Morgan le Fay’s most famous rival: the great Merlin himself. No doubt Riddle didn’t appreciate Hermione suggesting that the book was charmed to keep someone like him out. Still, it didn’t seem like that far of a stretch. 

“Or perhaps there’s something about you that caused it to reveal such strange magic,” Riddle retorted. “Though why it would choose you is beyond me.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione stood up. The venom in his voice during his previous remarks couldn’t be missed. “I’m Head Girl! I am top of my class, and, professor, in case you didn’t realize, I have matched you in marks every year. Every single record or score of yours I have met. Muggleborn or not.” She almost added a stinging remark about the fact that he himself was merely a Half-Blood, but she bit her tongue. It wouldn’t do to insult him the way he’d insulted her; it was better to remind him why his comments were uncalled for.

Riddle answered her reaction with silence. 

“Goodnight, Professor,” Hermione huffed as she walked pointedly to the door. “See you in class.”

She didn’t hesitate to slam the door behind her.

*****

_A woman in a dark cloak climbed the impressive hill to look out over the loch. She waited, knowing it would not be long before the person she awaited would appear. The familiar rush accompanied by the magic of apparition sounded behind her, but she did not turn._

_It was him. She could always tell._

_“You came,” his voice was low as he stood beside her, looking down over the loch._

_The woman turned and lowered the hood of her cloak. Her wild curls danced in the gentle evening breeze as her warm eyes appraised the aging figure beside her. He was still tall, but did not seem as broad as he had once been — though he had always been more slight than his red-haired acquaintance. His hair, once thick and dark, was all but gone; the only reminder of such dark hair was found in his neatly trimmed beard._

_“Of course I came,” the woman said. “I needed to see you.”_

_The man noted she had not aged a day since they had first met. He assumed that her sort of magic helped keep her young; such were the benefits of the older magic._

_”Have you finished it?” he inquired._

_At the mention of her reason of being there in the first place, the woman drew a heavy tome from the folds of her billowing dark robes. The man reached out for the book, and his hands brushed over the cover. All her secrets, contained in one place, were now in his hands._

_“And the ritual?”_

_The reminder left a bitter taste in the woman’s mouth. At one time, perhaps, the ritual would have been appropriate, but one glance at the man reminded her of his age and the delicate nature of the magic involved..._

_”It’s too late for us, my love,” she sighed, gently caressing his cheek._

_The man looked down at the book and then at the woman. He understood. The magic was not meant for them._

*****

If Tom Riddle had to spend time translating one more irregular rune for the sake of translating the damned Avalon book, he swore he would abandon his teaching post and take the Death Eaters on a rampage through the continent á la Gellert Grindelwald. Through his window, he could see the sun coming up off on the horizon, and Riddle scorned himself for a night wasted trying to figure out Hermione and trying to decode the book. He began to wonder if Hermione was right in her moment of annoyance with him; perhaps, if Morgan le Fay truly was the author of the book, she had placed some sort of charm on it to keep anyone from Merlin’s house from decoding it. That’s how it felt, at least, considering Tom had never seen so many irregular runes in his life. 

With a huff, he closed the book and headed down to breakfast. 

As soon as he stepped foot inside the hall, Riddle regretted it. The daily chatter of students seemed twice as loud as usual that morning. It made his head pound miserably. When he sat down at the head table, he noted that Dippet and Dumbledore were absent. A secondary scan of the room showed that Hermione was not; she was reading the Daily Prophet while drinking pumpkin juice. 

“Tom, m’boy!” Professor Slughorn schmoozed as he approached him. “As you know, I’m already preparing the guest list for my first dinner party of the school year, and as usual, I’d like you to come and talk about your adventures from the summer.”

When he’d graduated and become a professor, Tom had hoped he’d outgrown Horace Slughorn’s exceedingly stuffy and mundane dinner parties, but, alas, he’d become a bit of a feature as a professor. Riddle suspected he was invited more as an incentive to the young men of Slytherin to meet the man who was the feature of their older brothers and cousins’ stories than to hear about the rare artifacts he uncovered during his breaks, but nonetheless Tom was always invited and always made an appearance. He’d long since decided it was better to go and be seen by the Ministry types always present at Slughorn’s parties than to slip into the nothingness and anonymity that was professorship.

“But of course, professor,” Tom said with ease. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” A lie, of course, but the phrase always delighted Slughorn so. 

“Splendid, my boy, splendid!” Slughorn clapped his hands together. “I will put you down on the list.” And with that, the Potions professor returned to his own breakfast and left Tom alone. 

Tom made sure to finish his breakfast in a timely manner. Just as he was finishing a slice of toast, Dippet and Dumbledore entered the hall. Both of them seemed to be looking intently at Tom, and he felt rather uneasy. What the two could be upset about he hardly knew, unless one of them had discovered that the book he’d turned in to them was nothing but a mere copy. But then they wouldn’f have been able to tell unless...

His eyes flitted to where Hermione was seated at the Gryffindor table. Her morning paper had been long forgotten and her gaze was now trained on him, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“Tom,” Headmaster Dippet began, “we would like to speak with you in my office immediately.”

“Of course, Headmaster.” Tom grit his teeth and rose to his feet, following the two men out of the hall and to the entrance of the headmaster’s office. “May I inquire as to why I have been drawn away from my breakfast?” 

They soon reached the headmaster’s office and Tom remained standing, gripping the back of an old chair. 

“This book, while cleverly copied, is just that,” Dumbledore remarked. “A copy. You disobeyed orders from the headmaster and, by keeping the original text in your possession, likely put one of your students at risk. Such action is highly inappropriate, Tom, though I doubt I need to tell you as much.” 

“No, you do not,” Tom snapped.

“Then why did you keep the original in your possession?” Dippet questioned. “We understand why you would be curious, Tom, but since it does pose a threat to one of your students you can see why we are disappointed by your actions.”

Tom took a deep breath and steadied himself. It would not do to lash out over the book, especially in front of Dumbledore who likely was aiming to have him fired for his infraction. 

“I thought that, given time, I would be able to uncover some of the book’s secrets and learn why the incident involving Miss Granger occurred,” he explained, choosing his words very carefully. “Therefore, I do admit that I disobeyed your direct orders, but I did it not out of a desire to keep my office unsafe for Miss Granger, but to figure out what had caused her harm and ultimately eliminate the threat to her safety. I have, in the past, proven myself to be a talented curse-breaker, after all.” 

Dumbledore’s gaze was intense and Tom was sure the old man was trying to read his thoughts; if he could, he would see that what he had told Dippet was mostly sincere. Of course, unlocking the book’s secrets would certainly benefit Tom as well.

It was clear by the way Dippet was nodding to himself that there would be no sort of punishment for his actions, so Tom simply waited for his dismissal.

“That is understandable, Tom, and good of you as an educator to invest your own time in trying to protect one of your students,” he finally said. “However, that does not change the fact that you must turn in the original. The Dark Arts May be your specialty, but it would be best for the book to be sent away to the Ministry for a true specialist to examine.”

“But professor—”

“No ‘buts,’” Dippet chuckled. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

“Yes, professor,” Tom muttered. He was seething at the way his interest and skills were so easily dismissed. No doubt Dumbledore had already influenced Dippet to stop at nothing in order to take the book away from him. Tom imagined Dumbledore had already started working on translating the copy, and likely wanted the book to himself—the Ministry would undoubtedly return it after examining it not to Tom but to Dumbledore instead. 

On his way into the classroom, Tom passed none other than the little snitch herself.

“I hope you’re happy,” he growled before entering the room and making his way up front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So clearly I’m playing a little with historical timelines in the Harry Potter universe, but this is already an AU so... idk.
> 
> Any guesses as to who the man and woman in the flashback are? I think it’s rather obvious, unfortunately...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione spends an evening in the library and makes some stunning discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello y’all! I apologize now for the length of this chapter; it’s rather short, but it’s important for the plot of this fic. I hope you enjoy!

After the revelations of the night before, Hermione resolved herself to spend the entire following evening in her favorite place in the entire world: Hogwarts’ library. With the new information Riddle had uncovered about the book, she gathered every volume available to her on the Isle of Avalon and Morgan le Fay. The librarian had been rather cross with her for taking a rather large amount of books off the shelves at one time, but Hermione was used to being a bit of a pest as far as her voracious reading habit was concerned. 

When she didn’t make it to supper, Minerva took it upon herself to check in on Hermione; it wasn’t unusual for her to miss meals, but she had practically disappeared to the library without giving a reason why she would be spending the evening there.

“These are all on the same subject,” she noticed. “Are you working on some sort of extra credit already?” 

“Something like that,” Hermione muttered as she opened another book on Avalon. 

Minerva looked her over curiously; she could tell Hermione was tired, as there were dark circles under her eyes and her unruly curls were piled on top of her head. She didn’t know exactly what was keeping Hermione up at night, but it was unusual that she was so stressed so early in the semester. 

Hermione glanced up at her, recognizing that she was worried. “I’m fine, Minerva. Don’t worry.”

“Alright,” Minerva said. “Just... make sure to get back before curfew. The Slytherins are doing rounds tonight.” Hermione looked up at the clock that hung on the wall behind the librarian’s desk and cursed softly to herself; there was only an hour left until curfew and she had gotten nowhere as far as her research went. 

Once Minerva was gone, Hermione turned her attention to the latest book on the Isle of Avalon she had opened. As she read, she happened across a fascinating passage.

While Morgan le Fay’s famed isle is lost to both wizardkind and muggle alike, wizard historians agree that during Morgan le Fay’s lifetime the Isle of Avalon had many noteworthy visitors, including her famed rival Merlin, the knight Percival, and even Hogwarts founder Salazar Slytherin. It is even believed by some that Slytherin died on the Isle as his journey is believed to have been made late in life and no record of his burial anywhere on the mainland exists. 

Hermione’s head snapped up and she glanced at the clock. She had fifteen minutes until curfew. Stuffing the book with the information concerning Slytherin into her book bag, she magicked the others back to their shelves and sprung to her feet, running to Professor Riddle’s office. 

“Professor!” she called as she banged on the door, hoping he hadn’t already retired for the evening. “Professor, open u—”

The door swung open abruptly and Hermione almost fell flat on her face when it did. A scowling Professor Riddle was facing her on the other side, just beyond the threshold. He seemed to begrudgingly let her in and Hermione sat down in one of the wingback chairs before pulling the book from her bag.

“Professor, you wouldn’t believe what I found today when I was trying to learn more about Morgan le Fay and the Isle of—”

“Why would you tell Dippet?” His voice was positively dripping with venom and Hermione gulped. She noted that he was far more disheveled than she’d ever seen him before; his hair was mussed, his tie was loosened and the top few buttons of his white Oxford were unbuttoned. She also noted that he had a tumbler of what appeared to be fire whisky in his left hand. 

“I-I beg your pardon?” Hermione questioned.

“Why would you tell Dippet about the copied book?” he questioned back. “I saw the look on your face this morning when Dippet and Dumbledore requested to speak to me. And after they spoke to me about the fact that I hadn’t turned in the book to them, I surmised that only one person would have told them. The glorious, rule-following Head Girl herself.”

“I didn’t say a word to the headmaster or Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione said truthfully. “Have you ever thought that Dumbledore might have figured it out all on his own?” She didn’t lace her words with as much acid as he did, but they still stung ever so slightly.

Riddle threw back the rest of his drink and slammed the tumbler down on a side-table. 

“You’re drunk,” Hermione said, her voice wavering in slight concern. “I’ll just come back tomorrow, professor. I’m sorry you thought that I would have rattled on you, but I insist that I did not...” she started to gather her things once more and rose to her feet, hoping to avoid any further confrontation. 

If only she could have been that lucky.

Instead, Riddle grabbed her wrist before she could reach the door. Every fibre of Hermione’s being recoiled at his touch; it was both forceful and gentle, and she didn’t like how the man who had made her so miserable all these years was capable of such a dichotomy. She attempted to pull her wrist from his grasp, but he only tightened it. She gasped, eyes watering slightly.

“You’re hurting me,” she hissed, trying to pull away from him and wishing he hadn’t grabbed her wand hand while simultaneously wishing she was as adept at wandless magic as Minerva.

“If I wanted to hurt you, you would know,” Riddle scoffed. “Now tell me why you lied to me.”

“I wasn’t lying!” Hermione shrieked at him. “Honestly, professor! Do you think I would spend an entire evening in the library researching Morgan le Fay and Avalon if I had told Dippet and Dumbledore about the copy?” She met his gaze and huffed. “Your distrust of Dumbledore makes you blind,” she muttered. 

“What was that?” Riddle spat. His neatly-trimmed nails dug into the sensitive skin of her wrist and Hermione gasped, instinctively jerking away from him. “What did you say, you filthy little mudblood?”

It happened before Hermione really realized what she had done.

As soon as that foul word left his mouth, her free hand collided with the side of his face in one of the strongest slaps she had ever delivered in her life. The sound was sharp in the air, and Riddle was so shocked that he almost released her other arm from his grasp. When he turned back to face her, the right side of his face was a flaming shade of red. A small, animalistic growl escaped his lips and he slammed her back against the door. 

“How dare you strike me,” he snarled. 

“How dare you call me a m-mudblood,” Hermione retorted. “Let me go now, professor, and I won’t go straight to Dippet.” 

Riddle seemed to realize she wasn’t bluffing and let go of her. Without saying another word, Hermione slipped quietly out of the room. When the door shut behind her, her knees threatened to give out. Her heart was pounding wildly and when she squeezed her eyes shut she couldn’t get the pure madness that had shown in Riddle’s eyes when he’d pushed her back against the door; it was enough to make her blood run cold. 

Hermione knew it was past curfew, so she hurried as fast as she could in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. She’d almost made it safely back, but when she rounded the corner to reach the stairs that led to the entrance, she ran into one of the Slytherin prefects. 

“Ah, Hermione,” the youngest Nott brother, Clarence, sneered. “It appears you’ve missed curfew. And I know you know what that means.”

“Please, Clarence,” Hermione huffed. “I fell asleep in the library and I was just on my way back to my dormitory. Please just let it go this once. It won’t happen again.” 

Nott’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll take your patrols for a whole month,” Hermione offered.

“Fine,” he grunted. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Thanks Clarence,” Hermione muttered before finally reaching the entrance to the common room and slipping inside. 

Because her mind was whirling, Hermione knew she needed to try and calm herself before going to bed. She sat down on one of the sofas and took her newest read out of her bag and opened it, returning to the page that had caused her to run to Riddle’s office in such excitement. To her surprise, the book’s author continued to write about Salazar Slytherin.

While Slytherin likely taught Morgan le Fay’s rival Merlin — as Merlin was notably a member of Slytherin’s house at Hogwarts while Slytherin was alive — it is rumored that the Hogwarts founder was rather fond of the sorceress and coveted the magic practiced by her and the other witches living on the Isle. Whether or not Morgan le Fay returned his affections remains unseen, as her line was not continued through him but through one of her muggle lovers instead. 

Slytherin’s journey to Avalon marked the Hogwarts founder’s final act of separating himself from the school, as he would never return to the school’s grounds after his trip, further fueling the rumor that Slytherin died on the Isle. 

Legend has it that members of the House of Gaunt have searched for the Isle, hoping to recover Slytherin’s remains, but all who have gone searching for Avalon have disappeared.

Hermione swallowed hard. 

It wasn’t like she had been considering trying to find the Isle of Avalon; if something had been lost to the wizarding world and muggle world for so long, there had to be a good reason for it. But now it seemed that the Isle didn’t want to be found, which was more than enough of a reason not to go searching. 

Her mind wandered back to her frightening and bizarre encounter with Professor Riddle. While it was a well-known fact to all members of the “Slug Club” that Professor Slughorn was prone to overindulging, she had never taken Professor Riddle to be the type. Still, she supposed that just because Riddle likes to present himself as the perfect, disciplined Professor didn’t mean he wasn’t subject to his own vices. The more she thought about it, she could recall seeing an ashtray in his quarters that, while certainly not full, was not empty either. 

“Stop thinking about Professor Riddle,” she muttered to herself as she picked up her bag and made her way up to her dormitory. Everyone else was already asleep, so Hermione made sure to change as quickly and quietly into her pajamas and crawl right into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I’ll have something done for the next chapter sometime soon, but we’ll see. 
> 
> Also, I know there’s a bit of a split on Tom and whether or not he has normal vices like drinking and smoking — I personally think he would as self-destructive behavior usually branches out into different realms. So a man who dares to split his soul apart and make horcruxes, in my mind, would also like his booze and a cigarette every once in a while.
> 
> Let me know where you stand on the Tom and his vices debate!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here’s the Quidditch chapter; I hope you all like it and don’t mind that I didn’t write a summary (I find summaries to be a bit annoying at times).

Hermione woke up the following morning with a groan. Her alarm charm was causing her wand to buzz incessantly beneath her pillow. Upon checking the time, she wondered why she had set an alarm for six o’clock in the bloody morning — on a Saturday of all days — when she suddenly remembered that she’d agreed to attend Quidditch tryouts. Wesley and Minerva had asked her to come and support them, hence the rather early wake-up time. 

With a grumble, Hermione rummage through her trunk to find some acceptable weekend attire. Once she was satisfied and sure she wouldn’t need to overuse a warming charm while she sat in the stands, Hermione made her way down to the Quidditch pitch. 

As soon as she reached the massive wooden structure nestled on Hogwarts’ grounds, she regretted making her promise to Minerva and Wesley.

“But that’s not fair, professor!” Wesley stormed after none other than Professor Riddle who, much to Hermione’s surprise, showed no signs of his rather intoxicated state the night before. “Quidditch tryouts have always been left to the discretion of the team’s captain; never before has a professor been called in to observe—”

“That was before last year’s tryouts when even attempting to earn a spot on a team left multiple students in the hospital wing for a week, Mr. Wood,” Riddle stayed icily. “If you take issue with my presence, I suggest you discuss such matters with Headmaster Dippet.”

Wesley puffed up his chest. “Maybe I will!” he exclaimed before spotting Hermione. “‘Mione! You made it!”

Hermione grinned as Wesley embraced her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Wes,” she said.

When she pulled away from him, she glanced momentarily at Professor Riddle. His gaze seemed less directed at her than it was at Wesley, and he seemed to be directing nothing but pure ire in his direction. Hermione found it curious, but brushed it aside as Wesley began to talk animatedly about the tryouts. He also clearly expressed his disgust at Riddle’s presence and threw in a wayward glance at said professor to make a point.

“Do that again and I’ll have to take points, Mr. Wood,” Riddle sneered. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Wesley grumbled quietly to himself as he mounted his Comet 80 and zoomed into the pitch where the others were warming up. Riddle looked at Hermione once more with an unreadable expression before mounting his own broom — a brand-new Silver Arrow 300 — and joining the students. 

As Hermione settled in the stands, she observed Riddle from a safe distance. While he clearly wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about flying as Wesley or Minerva, he was more than capable on a broom. She remembered seeing a fair few Quidditch House Cups from the forties that listed “T. Riddle” first as Seeker and then later as Keeper and Team Captain for Slytherin. Hermione didn’t follow Quidditch that well, but she could see Riddle making a good Keeper; he liked the glory and attention that Seekers earned, but as Keeper he had much more control over the game than he would chasing after the Golden Snitch. 

Tryouts were going rather smoothly; Minerva was hovering over the rowdy scrimmage, keeping her sharp eyes on the lookout for the elusive Snitch. Wesley was zooming around, catching and throwing the Quaffle with ease. When Wesley threw the ball through one of the goal posts, Hermione cheered for her friend. She didn’t notice that her excitement earned her a glare from the observing professor.

Wesley was tossing a quaffle over to one of the Weasleys when a bludger hurtled toward him, crashing into the front of his broom. 

Hermione gasped as Wesley hurtled toward the ground. Before she knew what she was doing, she pulled her wand from her dress pocket and cast a spell she had seen Professor Dumbledore perform when a similar accident had occurred during a real match.

“Arresto momentum!” she shouted, watching as Wesley’s speed decreased to a point where he nearly floated to the ground.

Riddle, meanwhile, had landed gracefully on the pitch next to Wesley, who was slightly in shock but not truly hurt. Of course, the same could not be said for his broom, but Wesley wasn’t necessarily disappointed about the destruction of the old broom. 

“Just gives me an excuse to buy a new Silver Arrow,” he grinned to Hermione when she reached him.

“Mr. Wood, while you do appear to be in perfect health I would suggest you report to the hospital wing to ensure that all is well,” Riddle said coolly. Wesley appeared to start protesting, but quickly stopped. Hermione imagined he wouldn’t be able to win that battle, so Wesley shuffled off toward the castle.

Minerva wrapped up tryouts, leaving Hermione and Riddle alone out on the pitch. 

“You didn’t have to be so cold to Wesley,” Hermione pointed out to him when he seemed to be looking at her expectantly. “He loves Quidditch more than anyone I know and that’s why he’s so quick to defend it and its traditions. He didn’t mean any offense to you.” Riddle laughed at her. The sound was sharp and biting. 

“And you don’t have to sell yourself short and be content with a second-rate wizard like Mr. Wood,” Riddle retorted.

Hermione grit her teeth. “Wesley is not incompetent as you suggest,” she hissed. 

“The fact that you feel the need to defend him tells me everything I need to know.” Riddle smirked at her and Hermione felt a strong urge to hex it right off of him. “It’s rather naive of you, isn’t it, Miss Granger, to cling to a simple schoolgirl crush when you know deep down that you’re worthy of so much more?” He was stepping closer to her now with a predatory gait; though with his grace he was far less a fierce king of the jungle and more a snake, slinking closer and closer in order to wrap itself around its next victim and squeeze.

“I have never felt that way about Wesley,” she defended herself. “He’s my friend and he means quite a lot to me, but I have never... thought about him in that way.” In a softer voice she added, “I’ve never thought of anyone that way.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Riddle hummed as he cupped her chin and tilted her head back so she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “I was much like you when I was a student. I knew I was... different from my peers. That my ambitions and my goals would lead me down a different path than most of them would ever know. I never really wanted any of them, never saw them as my equals.”

Hermione felt a knot in her stomach, but it wasn’t the usual kind that she felt when in close proximity to Riddle. It felt more like giddy butterflies. 

She hated them.

“Well,” Hermione said gently as she quickly stepped out of his grasp. “I’m sure we’ll both find someone someday, professor. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

Her heart was nearly in her throat as she made her way up to the castle. While all of her interactions with Professor Riddle that year had been certifiably bizarre, the one she’d just ran away from took the cake. The look in his eye had been positively possessive and Hermione cringed to think that Professor Riddle of all people had taken a liking toward her that was more than professional. 

What bothered her more was that he had been right.

Hermione always figured she would marry someone at least a year or two older than her; she would likely reconnect with someone who had been ahead of her in school while she started working at the Ministry after graduation and things would progress from there. Her peers, while once a source of excitement when the joys of adolescence first began, left something to be desired and were far to familiar to ever draw her interest now. She almost laughed to herself; if Riddle had assumed that she was romantically interested in Wesley Wood then the man was truly off his rocker. Wesley was more like the brother she’d never had and Hermione had always assumed he was far more interested in Minerva. 

When she found Wesley and Minerva, they were in a deep conversation up in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione assumed that they were making decisions regarding tryouts, so she simply decided to leave them to their work. 

“Hey, Hermione,” Minerva said when she finally noticed she’d returned. “Did Riddle say anything to you after tryouts?”

“Yes, but it was nothing really,” she lied.

Wesley didn’t seem convinced. “And what did the tosser have to say? Something bloody self-righteous, I assume,” he smirked. Hermione shook her head and gnawed slightly on her bottom lip.

“He simply commended me for my fast thinking when that Bludger hit your broom,” she lied again.

“Riddle?” Wesley’s eyebrows shot up. “Giving a compliment? To a Gryffindor? I’m starting to think your spell must not have worked and I’ve died because I never thought I’d live to see the day!” Minerva whacked him gently on the arm. 

“While I agree with you, I think it’s safe to say that Professor Riddle has taken a bit of a liking to Hermione,” she noted, looking at Hermione questioningly. “Why he’s done such a thing is anyone’s guess, but I bet it has something to do with the fact that there’s no denying that there’s no spell Hermione can’t do. Even the snake king himself couldn’t deny it forever.”

But the look on Minerva’s face told Hermione that she was clearly concerned about her.

As usual, Wesley was oblivious to any additional tension in the room and turned the conversation to his favorite topic. “You know, it was rather bizarre, the accident,” he stated. “That bloody Bludger came out of nowhere; though I suppose I wasn’t paying as close attention to them as I would during a regular match.” Wesley shrugged to himself and pulled out a box of Bertie Bott’s from the pocket of his robes and began munching on them. “Bleh! Bogeys. Anyway, I would like to go back in time and see what Riddle was like when he was a player. I never took the wanker for the type — like I said before, he always seemed like a bit of a poof to me — but he seemed well at ease on a broom.”

“He was team captain for Slytherin his sixth and seventh years,” Hermione said. “I saw his name on some plaque in one of the trophy cases once. If I recall, he started off as a Seeker and ended up a Keeper.”

“Of course you know that,” Lucinda Prewett teased lightly, as she’d just happened upon the conversation as Hermione rattled off her knowledge of Riddle’s Quidditch career.

Hermione raised a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Lucinda shrugged. “It seems the Slytherins have started a rather intriguing rumor about you and Professor Riddle,” she hummed. “They say there’s a particular reason that you started getting such high marks in Defence last year... and that you’ve been spotted heading to his quarters at random hours of the night... Everyone is on their toes in anticipation to see what you and Riddle get up to at Slughorn’s first dinner party.”

“Merlin, when is that?” Hermione paled. She’d completely forgotten about it.

“Next Friday,” Minerva supplied. 

Hermione wanted to curl up in a little ball and die. Slughorn’s dinner parties were always horrid affairs, but with Slytherin circulating rumors about her and a certain professor who was bound to be in attendance the evening was guaranteed to be an absolute train-wreck. 

Swallowing her pride, she looked up at Lucinda. 

“Lucinda, would you be willing to help me get ready next week?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Hermione is going to get all glammed up for Slughorn’s party... any guesses as to how Tom will react? 
> 
> And who will she take as her date?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, unfortunately, really short because I have a fair amount of writers’ block and I knew this was a necessary chapter to check in with Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore couldn’t stand Abraxas Malfoy.

It was something Albus felt much more secure in admitting to himself now that Abraxas was no longer one of his students, but the suspicion and dislike had been there when Mr. Malfoy had been one of Tom Riddle’s cohorts during his time at Hogwarts. He could recall always suspecting Tom and his horde of Slytherins whenever something bad would happen to a muggleborn or any student who dared stand up to them — the mysterious attacks and the death of Myrtle Warren stuck out prominently in his mind — but nothing would ever stick to any of them. And when Malfoy began to work for the Ministry, Albus’ suspicion of him only grew.

So he did what he only thought natural: he invited Abraxas to tea.

It was clear when the future Malfoy patriarch arrived that he seemed unnerved by Dumbledore’s invitation; he sat stiffly in the overstuffed armchair facing his former professor as one of the house elves poured him a cup of tea.

“I must admit I was a bit shocked to receive your invitation,” Abraxas said. 

Dumbledore raised a brow. “I simply took it upon myself to check in, is all,” he explained. “I’m sure working at the Ministry has proved rather rewarding... and coming to Hogwarts gives you a chance to drop-in and see your old friend Mr. Riddle.” Albus didn’t miss how Abraxas seemed to tense at the mere mention.

“Ah, Tom and I were planning on getting together next week,” he stated. “And you know Tom; he runs his life like a muggle timetable at King’s Cross.” Abraxas took a quick gulp of his tea — milk and two sugars — before settling back into the armchair. “Now really, professor, why did you ask me here?” 

Albus was surprised; he had been expecting to beat around the bush, as it were.

“I heard you requested some records this past week,” Albus began. “Concerning one of my current students. Naturally, I wanted to know why you needed such information and what you intend to do with those records. And considering you have never interacted with the young woman in question, I’m also curious as to who asked you to gather information on her, though I do have my suspicions.”

“Well when I heard you had been digging for any magic connections in the girl’s lineage you can understand how curious some people became,” Abraxas hummed dismissively. 

Albus’ grip on his teacup tightened. 

“You won’t give him the records,” he warned. “That information will mean nothing but trouble for him.”

“Oh, I won’t give them to him. Not yet, at least.” Abraxas Malfoy’s eyes shined. “Mostly because I promised I’d have information for him a week from now, and also because I would like it very much if his book was returned to him. He didn’t take the confiscation of such an interesting volume lightly. Get the book back to him and I might delay giving him the records until Miss Granger has left Hogwarts.”

It was a risky deal. Hermione would be far more vulnerable outside of Hogwarts, but Albus doubted she would be incapable of protecting herself. And it would take Tom a rather long time to unlock all of the confiscated book’s secrets. 

Said book also happened to be sitting in the top drawer of Dumbledore’s desk.

“I’ll return the book to Professor Riddle personally,” Albus assured. “Thank you for stopping in, Abraxas.”

Understanding the statement to be a dismissal, Abraxas rose to his feet, nodded to Dumbledore, and exited the office without saying a word. Albus reached for the top drawer of his desk but hesitated; he would return the book to Tom, but not quite yet. Putting such powerful magic in Tom’s hands while Hermione was still at school promised to be a complete and utter disaster. 

But he didn’t doubt Abraxas would tell Tom that the book was in his possession.

With a small sigh, Albus pulled the drawer out and picked up the volume, tucking it under his arm as he left his office to head to the Defence classroom. He knocked firmly on the door and heard a rather hurried shuffling on the other side. Albus noted that Tom seemed rather disappointed by his presence.

“Professor,” Tom stated rather firmly. “What a surprise.”

“I imagine it is, Tom,” Albus returned. “May I come in?” Tom stepped back from the door and opened it further, making it clear that Dumbledore was welcome. Well, as welcome as he could possibly be. “You seemed rather disappointed when it was me at the door,” he hummed. “You weren’t expecting anyone, were you?”

“Not at all, professor,” Tom said. “And I will always make time for my coworkers.”

“Well I won’t take much of your time. I simply wished to return your book to you,” Albus held the book out to him. “The Ministry found nothing unusual about it and recommended I return it to you for safekeeping.” 

Tom’s eyes lit up ever so slightly at the sight of the book, but restrained his pleasure at its return to him. Albus noticed the slight gleam and it made his stomach twist. It reminded him strongly of an old friend. 

“Thank you so much, professor.”

They didn’t exchange anymore niceties, so Albus bowed slightly to Riddle before making his way to the headmaster’s office. 

“Does he have the book?” Dippet inquired. 

“I returned it to him myself.” Albus sat down opposite Dippet, facing him as he sat behind his great desk. “And Abraxas Malfoy claims he will delay giving Tom the information he gathered, but you and I know better than that.” He thought back to Tom’s expression upon receiving the book. “I’m afraid it’s too late for him, Armando. The look in his eye when I gave him that book... it was just like him.”

The aging Headmaster looked at Dumbledore with a slight twinkle in his eyes. 

“Well perhaps there will be one thing that will save young Mr. Riddle where it failed Grindelwald,” he mused.

“And what would that be?” Albus inquired.

“Love, of course,” Dippet explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dippet is a bit more optimistic about Tom’s future while Albus is being haunted by the ghosts of his past.
> 
> Next up, there will be another shorter chapter covering the day leading up to Slughorn’s dinner party, and then chapter 10 will be the big party itself. (I can’t wait, personally; can you?)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another shorter chapter that’s leading up to Slughorn’s dinner party which will probably be a much longer chapter because I’ll probably have part of it from Hermione’s perspective and part of it from Tom’s. 
> 
> This chapter focuses on Tom’s day leading up to the dinner party and what he decides to teach his DADA class that day.

Tom hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since Dumbledore returned the book to him and it showed. At breakfast on Friday he was on his third cup of coffee and yet he felt just as exhausted as he had when he’d woke up. And that certainly wouldn’t do; not when he had to teach the bloody Gryffindors that morning. Not when he had to teach her.

She had been cold to him all week — not that he didn’t understand; his behavior that morning on the Quidditch pitch had lacked any sense of decorum and even his own memories of that interaction made him rather cross with himself. But she’d also pulled back in his class. She didn’t answer any of his questions voluntarily and her practical spellwork, while still far more brilliant than that of her peers, was lacking the power and energy he knew she had. 

Hermione Granger was trying to be boring when he knew she was anything but.

Looking out at the long tables in the Great Hall, Tom caught himself searching for her. When he finally spotted her distinctively wild hair, he was unsurprised to find her nose stuck in a book. Across from her, a disappointingly I injured Wesley Wood appeared to be prattling on about some subject that Tom knew Hermione couldn’t care less about. Tom was certain he could stimulate that brilliant mind of hers more in two minutes than Wood could in an hour. A part of him also mused that he could stimulate her better than Wood in other ways, but he didn’t let his mind wander too far in that direction. For Tom, sex had always been more about getting rid of any lingering urges than it was a way to... express feelings. In fact, he much preferred keeping feelings out of most things, sex being one of many.

But still. As an intellectual, he was admittedly curious. Not that he would ever act on such curiosity while she was still a student, of course. 

Though he had gotten rather close that morning on the Quidditch pitch. That little urge inside of him to control her, to get her to understand just how powerful she was and then to use that power... it had almost burst forth from him that morning in full force.

As Tom began to pull back from his thoughts, he realized Hermione was looking right at him. He simply nodded politely to her before turning his attention back to the _Daily Prophet_ that he’d begun to read but had abandoned as he let his mind wander. Finding nothing of merit in the paper, Tom rose to his feet with the intention to go and ready his classroom for the day only to be cornered by Professor Slughorn. 

“Ah, Tom, my boy!” Slughorn patted his stomach as he greeted him. “I hope you still plan on making an appearance at my little get-together tonight; the Minister himself is talking about making an appearance. You know, he’s still rather disappointed that he couldn’t get you on his staff...”

Tom fought back every urge to frown and forced a smile. “Well you know I’ve always been more interested in taking a more active role in shaping the future,” he said.

“Of course, m’boy, of course!” he chortled. “Though you know earning great respect as a Hogwarts professor isn’t the worst way to put yourself on track to become Minister.” Tom nodded respectively to his former head of house before maneuvering his way out of the conversation. He had always loathed the way that Slughorn latched onto former students’ achievements like a parasite. It might be advantageous to have good connections in the wizarding world, but Slughorn tried to use his like actual currency. 

By the time Tom made it to his classroom he had very little time to prepare. He quickly cleared away all the desks and made sure the room was clear for the lesson he had planned. 

As the students all began to shuffle in, he could tell by the looks on their faces that some were far more excited about the day’s lesson than others. Off to the side but still near the front, Hermione watched him warily. 

“Good morning, class,” Tom greeted. “Today, we are going to start working more intensely on the practical applications of dueling spells. I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you all up, but since the class is an uneven number, one of you will be stuck with me.” A few of his more incompetent students paled at the mere thought and Tom tried his best not to chuckle. 

With a flick of his wand, the official dueling pairs appeared on the chalkboard. At the very top, Hermione’s name was listed individually. 

“You did that on purpose,” she grumbled to him as they partnered up.

“Truly, Miss Granger, do you really think you would be able test your full capabilities on one of your classmates?” Tom asked. “I’m doing you a favor.” 

He was pleased when their duel began that she wasn’t going about it half-heartedly. Instead, he could feel the determination radiating off of her as she cast spell after spell in his direction. She even surprised him with a nonverbal shield or two; Tom had known she had been working on such magic but he hadn’t realized she was already fairly proficient. It was all the more reason to continue to pursue her. 

“ _Diffindo_!” Hermione shouted when she noticed a fault in his shield. Tom had only seconds to react and managed to block most of the spell, but not before his shirtsleeve was torn. “Oh Merlin, Professor, I’m so sorry—”

Tom quickly cast a nonverbal _stupefy_ when Hermione was distracted. She promptly fell backward with a soft thud and Tom plucked her wand from her hand before reversing the spell.

“Never apologize during a duel, Miss Granger,” he told her as she sat up slowly and took her wand back. “It’s better to win and burn a bridge than apologize and end up stupefied—or worse.” 

“I disagree,” Hermione sniffed. 

Tom looked at the cross expression on her face for a long time before he spoke.

“Someday you won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the classic Tom and Hermione duel. A favorite! He certainly let his desire to win be known with the lesson he imparted to Hermione. And he’s also showing that urge to control her.
> 
> But will he ever get to control her? That is the question! Let me know how you think Tom is going to behave at dinner ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s slug club time! Read on to see how the evening goes for our favorite pair...

Hermione plopped down on her bed in the dormitory, hair half done and makeup sitting on her bedside table. After her rather long Friday, she wasn’t really sure she had the motivation to attend Slughorn’s dinner party that night. Add in the fact that she would have to face Professor Riddle after her rather embarrassing defeat in Defence Against the Dark Arts and she had more than enough reasons not to show her face. But Minerva was almost ready for the evening and Hermione had promised to walk with her to Slughorn’s, so she sat up with a huff and continued to charm her hair into submission. As she did, she adjusted the top of her dress; as the dinner party was simply one of the smaller gatherings, Hermione was wearing a simple black cocktail dress. She would save some of her nicer dress robes for the Christmas party.

“‘Mione, you better hurry up,” Minerva said. “The party starts at seven.”

With a wave of her wand, Hermione finished her look for the evening with a touch of mascara and a swipe of red lipstick. She tucked her wand away into the simple thigh holster she’d fashioned for herself, and sipped on her dress shoes.

“Alright, let’s go,” she sighed. 

The halls of Hogwarts were surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. Hermione could hear the short heels of her shoes clicking softly on the floor as she and Minerva walked arm-in-arm down to the dungeons where Slughorn’s private quarters were located. 

When they reached the door, the sounds of idle chit-chat and soft jazz could be heard before they even entered. 

“After you,” Hermione gestured to Minerva and opened the door. 

Following close on Minerva’s heels, Hermione was quick to survey the room. The crowd consisted of the usual suspects; Slughorn’s favorite students — an overwhelming majority being from Slytherin — mingled with various Ministry officials and others of elevated status in wizarding Britain. Minerva was soon off mingling with a member of the Holyhead Harpies, leaving Hermione all by herself. A younger Slytherin wearing one of Slughorn’s horrid steward uniforms brought her a tray and offered her a glass of champagne, which she gladly took. 

“Ah! Miss Granger!” Slughorn called, “I am so glad you could make it!” It was obvious by his reddened complexion that he had clearly started indulging before his guests had arrived, not that Hermione was surprised. “You must come over and meet Mr—”

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s skin prickled at the sound of his voice. She had hoped that Professor Riddle wouldn’t seek her out after their duel that morning, but he seemed to always do the opposite of what she hoped he would do. Forcing a small smile onto her face, Hermione turned to face him. 

Riddle was wearing a rather understated grey suit that looked like it had come straight from Harrods men’s department. It also didn’t escape her notice that his hair seemed more styled than usual, making him look even more like a movie star. A small smile graced his face when her eyes finally met his, and he offered his arm.

“If you don’t mind, professor, I’d like to steal Miss Granger for a moment?” he looked to Slughorn for permission. Hermione didn’t miss the emphasis he put on “steal.”

Once they were a fair distance away from Slughorn, Hermione bit her cheek before speaking.

“Does Laurence Olivier know you raid his wardrobe?” she inquired.

Riddle chuckled; it was a low chuckle coming from deep in his throat and it made the hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck stand up. A few Ministry officials came up to speak to him as they took a turn about the room — and each one of them asked him about when we would quit teaching and start his political career — which prompted Hermione to quickly drain her glass of champagne and reach for a second when another young Slytherin offered her one. 

“You ought to pace yourself,” Riddle murmured in her ear. The action was too close, too intimate for Hermione’s liking. 

“It’s just champagne,” she pointed out. 

“That may be, but I find it’s quite easy to overindulge at parties when so many others are doing just that,” he explained. “And we wouldn’t want you making any decisions you might regret just because you were under the influence.”

Hermione pulled her arm from where it had been looped in his. 

“Professor, I am nearly eighteen years old,” she hissed. “I think I can take care of myself, and I most certainly do not need you to be telling me how to behave when out in public! You are my professor, it’s true, but you are not... my father!”

“I would hope not, I am far too young to be your father,” Riddle stated. It was a clear attempt at humor, but his frustration with her shone through his words. 

“Thank Merlin,” Hermione spat before storming off toward the table she’d been assigned to for dinner. 

Of course, she couldn’t have been fortunate enough to be seated away from Riddle. Instead, Slughorn has seen to it to sit them right next to each other. This drove Hermione to finish a bottle of Slughorn’s best champagne by herself during dinner. With every glass she finished, she felt more emboldened and has endeared herself to the Ministry officials seated at their table, but she could also feel Riddle glaring at her. But his anger, or perhaps disappointment, nearly spurred her on. 

When they’d finished with dessert, Hermione wasn’t quite sure she could get up from the table without making a complete and utter fool of herself.

“Do you want me to help you up?” Riddle asked, gritting his teeth when she stared up at him hazily.

“It’s rather unfair, you know,” Hermione mumbled. 

“What’s unfair?” Riddle crossed his arms and looked down at her, clearly growing more and more irritated by the minute. 

“Well, it’s unfair that a fellow who looks like you,” she gestured to him rather flippantly. “Is also a right royal tosser. Honestly, professor, if we had gone to school together I would have fancied you, I swear. But your personality—”

“Alright, everyone!” Slughorn’s shouting interrupted Hermione’s drunken insult. “If you could please clear away from the tables so we can make some room for dancing and the like!” 

Without Riddle’s help, Hermione got up rather unsteadily to her feet and made it safely to a quiet corner of the room. She watched as her fellow classmates all paired off; Minerva was dancing with a Ravenclaw boy who Hermione recognized from their Charms class. When Minerva finished dancing and made her way over to get some punch, Hermione walked up to her.

“Hey, Minnie,” she said, using the rarely-used nickname. “I’m feeling rather tired so I’m going to head back to the dormitory. You enjoy the rest of the night, though!”

“Alright, ‘Mione,” Minerva smiled. “Be safe!”

Making her quick retreat, Hermione exited Slughorn’s quarters quietly. As soon as the door closed behind her, she savored the calm and silence of the hallway. 

Of course, the silence would be short-lived.

“Leaving so soon?”

Riddle emerged from the shadows almost like a ghost. The smoke curling from the end of his lit cigarette framed his face in a sinister manner, as if he were Hades himself come to steal Persephone. Hermione stared at the glowing ashes for a moment before looking him in the eyes. He exhaled a cloud of smoke when she did and the motion seemed so effortless and the smoke moved just so that it almost seemed as if it was charmed.

“I wasn’t in the mood to dance,” Hermione said, smoothing the skirt of her dress. “I’m surprised you aren’t in there, rubbing shoulders with another Ministry official or two.”

With a short laugh, Riddle threw his cigarette to the floor and put it out. “Wining and dining the elite has always been Slughorn’s speciality,” he stated. “I never really enjoyed such dinners, even when I was a student.”

“I don’t find that surprising,” Hermione chuckled as she started to walk away from him. 

“Do you think it’s wise of you to walk around the castle alone at this hour?” Riddle questioned as he fell into step beside Hermione. 

“The only thing truly dangerous in these halls at the moment is you, professor,” Hermione said, biting the inside of her cheek. “Honestly, I must ask: why are you so fascinated with me? I’ve gone six years at this school without you caring about what I do or whether or not I succeed, yet all of a sudden...” She trailed off, internally blaming the alcohol for her sudden boldness. “Actually, on second thought, I don’t really want to—”

“Hermione.” Riddle grabbed her wrist, bringing her to a halt. 

She looked up at him, eyes shining in confusion. 

“Join me for a nightcap?” he asked. 

“I really shouldn’t, but...” Hermione took his proffered arm and walked in surprisingly comfortable silence to his private quarters. 

The well-appointed rooms were just as Hermione remembered them from the few times she’d been in them. As she sat down on the sofa, Riddle strode over to the brass bar cart that was tucked away in a corner to pour them both a drink. It made Hermione recall the night he’d called her a mudblood while drunker than she was now and she cringed. The memory made her take a big gulp from her drink when he returned with two tumblers of firewhisky and had handed her one. It burned down her throat, but also instantly sent a warm sensation through her extremities. 

“You’re lucky tomorrow is Saturday,” Riddle commented. 

“How much I drink is none of your concern,” Hermione retorted. 

Riddle shook his head and plucked her glass from her hand, setting it down on a side table. Hermione began to protest, but her fuzzy brain soon registered just how close he was to her and she was at a loss for words.

“I would like it to be my concern, Miss Granger,” he murmured. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione breathed. While sober Hermione, long-since banished thanks to Slughorn’s excellent taste in champagne, was screaming at her for allowing her professor to invade her personal space in such a way, drunk Hermione was too stupefied by how handsome Tom Riddle was to really care. 

“I would like to control you,” Riddle went on to explain. “I think you’ve realized, Miss Granger, that I am drawn to your power and your abilities. And, try as I might, I’ve failed at repressing the fact that your power is... attractive to me. Therefore, I wish to acquire you.”

“Acquire?” Hermione raised a brow. 

“Yes, acquire,” he repeated. “I don’t do traditional romance, Miss Granger. If you were to become my partner, I expect you to allow me a certain amount of control and oversight into your everyday routines, your behavior, et cetera.” 

“That... That... is a highly inappropriate proposal, professor,” Hermione gaped. “I’m one of your students!”

“Yes, and I imagine you can practice discretion.” Riddle procured a silver cigarette case from his jacket and rather suavely stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it, much to Hermione’s surprise, with an old Zippo lighter. “And, Miss Granger, any protests your more prudish side may urge you to create are rather null and void at the moment since you have not stormed out of here in a hurry and you are staring rather curiously at my mouth.”

“I... I...” Hermione stuttered. “Why me?”

“I’ve already explained that.”

She stared at him for a long, long time. Hermione had to admit that some part of her was absolutely thrilled; it wasn’t like devastatingly handsome men were lining up to make her theirs. But, while she had always been practical about many things, the approach Riddle wished to take in their relationship was far from ideal. 

“What all would I allow you to control if I... I agreed?” 

Riddle grinned like the devil himself and Hermione began to regret asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave it on a bit of a cliffhanger but it gives me a good chance to write a bit from Tom’s POV next chapter!
> 
> Also; I apologize if they both seemed a bit out of character. I couldn’t really decide how a drunk Hermione would act. Do you think they were in character or nah?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It’s been a while! Sorry for the wait; the angle for this chapter was very difficult (shout-out to the amazing NinjaFairy for helping me with my ideas) to outline. I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Also I’m sorry to any new reviewers if I haven’t replied to you; I’ll sort through and take care of that as soon as possible. I am working this summer and that’s made devoting internet time kind of difficult.

Hermione woke the next morning with the worst headache of her life. 

And it was due to that headache, she figured, that she didn’t realize right away that she wasn’t in her own bed in Gryffindor Tower. The sheets were notably a very light green — not really mint, but close to it — and much softer than those on most students’ beds. The mattress she was lying on was also much firmer, not unlike her bed at home. At first she wondered if she was home, but she never would have picked out green sheets for herself. Hermione clutched the pillow her head had been resting on and breathed in its scent, finding it to be distinctively... male. 

It was then that Hermione realized she most certainly was not alone. 

Lying beside her was none other than her Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. As she gaped at his sleeping form (trying to ignore the fact that he looked far younger in his sleep, What with his bedhead and the bit of drool in the corner of his open mouth), her immediate instinct was to run back to Gryffindor Tower. 

After scrambling to put on her dress — Hermione couldn’t recall precisely when she’d taken it off — she made her way quietly out of Riddle’s quarters and hurried to the safety of her own dormitory. It must have been early in the morning, as no one was inhabiting the halls. The only sounds she heard were that of her heels clicking furiously on the floor as she rounded one corner after another until she reached the safety of the common room. 

The only Gryffindor awake was, unfortunately, Minerva. 

“Hermione!” she exclaimed. “Thank Merlin you’re alright! When you weren’t in your bed last night I was so worried. Where were you?” Hermione sat down beside her on the sofa, trying to recall what all had happened.

Surely she had only shared a bed with Professor Riddle? After all, she had been rather drunk. It would only make sense that she had passed out and Riddle had simply put her into bed. But that didn’t explain how she’d woken up in nothing but her underclothes. Had she helped herself to the professor’s bed? Hermione cursed her failing memory and looked at Minerva. Her dear friend’s eyes were shining with evident concern. She needed to lie. There was no point in telling her something that could be easily construed as highly incriminating when Hermione herself didn’t know exactly what had happened that night. 

“You wouldn’t believe it, but I woke up in the library,” she lied. “It would seem that even when completely knackered I still want to find myself something to read before bed.”

Minerva seemed to narrow her eyes slightly, but didn’t question Hermione further. 

Relieved that she was not going to be the victim of one of Minerva’s infamous interrogations, she dashed up to the seventh year dormitory and collapsed on her bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow, a vague memory returned to her.

_Riddle was lying in bed, arms stretched lazily behind his head. Hermione was standing at the foot of it, undressed down to nothing save for her undergarments. Her eyes flitted curiously down his form, noting that, while he was still trim, he was much more muscular than she ever would have imagined. She cursed her drunken mind as her eyes followed a trail of wiry dark hair lower and lower before it disappeared beneath the bedcovers._

_“What do you say, pet?” he hummed._

_Hermione rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet._

_“May I please come to bed?” she asked, her voice a low whisper. A small grin graced Riddle’s face and he patted the side of the bed that was supposed to be hers._

_“You may.”_

The strange memory forced Hermione to jolt upward. Had she really agreed to that strange matter of control that Riddle had brought up before everything had become a bit of a blur? And had she really taken her clothes off for him as if it were nothing? The thought made her sick to her stomach. 

Without another thought, Hermione stripped out of her clothes, throwing them into the hamper before crawling under the covers of her own bed. She had no intentions of leaving it for the rest of the weekend, or at least until her memories had returned to her in full and she could confront Riddle about whatever the hell had occurred between the two of them. If anything had occurred between them. Though the one memory that she did have from that evening suggested that something not quite professional was going on. 

As she was lying in bed waiting for sleep to take her, Hermione’s mind began to race. Her worries spun around in her head like a twister, prompting her to sit up abruptly and grab her wand. 

While healing spells weren’t taught very often at Hogwarts, most students knew a simple examination spell that could tell them if there was anything out of the ordinary with their bodies. Despite being an easy spell, it had the potential to become controversial at some point for one reason: if one wished, they could use the spell to determine whether or not a young woman was still a virgin. There had been some sort of scandal in a pureblood family over a young woman’s virginity a few years back and the spell had been used to determine whether or not her fiancé was being lied to. 

The tip of Hermione’s wand glowed gold as she gently trailed it down her torso, which meant nothing was out of the ordinary. Much to her relief, it continued shine golden when the completed her examination.

“Thank Merlin,” she mumbled. Though in Riddle’s defense, taking a young woman’s virginity while she’s drunk; he seemed more the type that would like a person to remember every detail of that sort of thing. 

With her mind somewhat at ease, Hermione found it easy to drift back to sleep.

*****

“Hermione, are you feeling alright?” Wesley asked when Hermione sat down across from him on Monday morning for breakfast. 

“Yes, quite alright,” she replied. “Why?”

Of course, she was not ‘quite alright.’ When she’d gotten up that morning to get dressed, Hermione had been horrified to find that all her rather frumpy school robes had been hemmed and fitted. Even more alarming was the fact that most of her usual undergarments had been replaced with much more... sophisticated... ones. Assuming that, perhaps, her mother had sent a package and house elves had replaced her clothes — something that was an option for parents — Hermione became annoyed but put on the new bra and panties, along with the rather uncomfortable girdle and black stockings. Further frustrating her, however, was the disappearance of her penny loafers; in their place just under the foot of her bed was a pair of simple black pumps. 

Hermione thought about her new, uncomfortable shoes as she poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice. The motion seemed to bring back another missing memory from her night with Professor Riddle. 

_Hermione was sitting on the sofa, watching Riddle pour himself a drink from a cut crystal decanter. Her head was still swimming from the champagne she’d consumed, which was why she was focusing on his hands so intently._

_”You will not drink that much again,” he told her. “First of all, it is in bad taste. Secondly, I don’t want you so intoxicated that you do not remember our nights together.”_

_”I understand,” she stated._

_“Also,” he turned back to her and looked her over. “You must do something about how you present yourself. I expect you to dress your age. That means no more unflattering school uniforms and childish knee socks. You will wear at least a garter belt and stockings. Am I understood?”_

_”Yes, professor,” Hermione mumbled._

Her stomach sunk. Riddle had been the one to have all her clothes altered and replaced. Biting her lip, Hermione glanced up in his direction. He was reading the Daily Prophet and sipping a cup of coffee. She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach, which only increased when he noticed she was staring. He didn’t hold her gaze for very long, but curled a finger in her direction, summoning her to the head table. 

“Professor,” she greeted, staring down at her unfamiliar shoes. 

“Miss Granger,” he nodded. “I trust you are feeling better?” 

“Much,” she assured. 

Their eyes locked for a moment and Hermione felt that annoying fluttering once again. She was convinced that Riddle was not capable of any sort of warmth, but there was a kind of smolder in his dark blue eyes that she had never seen there before. 

“Very good.” His voice was low and somewhat rumbly. “I’ll see you in class, Miss Granger.”

It wasn’t until Hermione had started walking back to Gryffindor table that she realized she’d been holding her breath. Minerva and Wesley both looked at her strangely, but Hermione waved them both off and picked at her meal until it was time for Defence Against the Dark Arts. She walked beside Minerva, wishing she was wearing her usual loafers so she could keep up with Minerva’s longer strides. 

When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Hermione was nearly dumbstruck by Riddle’s appearance and she hated herself for it.

It wasn’t like her to want someone to micromanage every detail of her life, to want someone to control her. But part of her, a very, very small part of her, didn’t mind. Some it made sense to her; she’d always liked having structure in her life, after all. Routine allowed her the opportunity to think and focus on things she found more important than her clothes or shoes. And with someone else reaching out to take control of her routine, it allowed her to focus on things she found more important. 

Hermione and Minerva sat together in the front. Just as she was bending over to grab her parchment and quills from her book bag, Hermione suddenly had a memory from after she had gotten into bed with Riddle. 

_His lips brushed against hers in such a way that all Hermione could think about was what a tease he really was and not about the fact that the first boy she’d ever kissed was not so much a boy as he was a fully-grown man who knew exactly what he wanted from her._

_She nearly jumped out of her skin when his right hand gently cupped her at the apex of her thighs and was grateful for the thin layer of satin separating his confident grasp from overwhelming her completely. He looked down at where he was touching her, smirking amusedly at how she squirmed ever so slightly in his grasp._

_“I don’t want to see these in my class,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin._

_“Then I won’t wear this pair ever,” she stated. He chuckled, and Hermione realized that she hadn’t understood what he had meant. “Oh... I... I can’t just walk around without them!”_

_”You’d be surprised how many of your classmates have shown up the past two years or so to my class without them,” he teased. “I don’t know what it is about schoolgirls and young professors...” His index and middle finger drifted slightly upward and Hermione trembled somewhat from nerves and somewhat from a small touch of excitement._

“I’ve got to go,” she told Minerva. “I’ll be right back.” Without another thought, she dashed to the nearest lavatory.

Tugging the rather plain black satin panties down from beneath her rather pointless girdle proved difficult and Hermione blushed slightly when she looked at herself in the mirror in the girl’s lavatory. If someone were to look at her, they would have no idea she was running around without that most necessary (in her opinion) of undergarments. Before she exited, she stuffed said undergarment into her book bag, burying them as far down as she could. 

When she slipped quietly into the classroom, Riddle had already begun to lecture. He raised a brow at her and she simply blushed and slipped into her seat beside Minerva. 

*****

Halfway through his lecture, Tom dared to allow his eyes to wander low enough to look beneath Hermione’s desk. He nearly stuttered when he noticed she had done as he’d instructed her and was sitting in his classroom without any panties. Part of his mind wondered what pair she would have worn that day, and he cursed himself for getting too curious.

“Miss Granger,” he called, drawing her from her diligent note-taking. He could see her swallow nervously when she met his gaze.

“Yes, Professor?” She stared up at him with shining eyes.

“Please remain after class,” he stated, turning to face the blackboard so no one could see the devilish grin he was beginning to wear. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with you.”

There was a long pause before she responded.

“Of course, professor.”

He had her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I would say our favorite ship has passed the point of no return... or have they?
> 
> And how will Tom handle Hermione’s very special heritage?
> 
> AND where the hell is that magic book??
> 
> All questions are soon to be answered, but are welcome to be pondered ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut smut smut smuuuut ahead!
> 
> And with that comes a bit of an OOC warning, I think.

“Have I done something wrong, professor?” Hermione sat at her desk after the classroom had cleared out. Her voice had dropped to a rather soft whisper, partially due to the nerves that had overtaken her. The rapid pounding of her heart accelerated as Riddle walked around his desk and stood in front of hers own. His eyes were dark and stormy, and Hermione had a faint inkling of an idea as to what emotion he was experiencing in that moment: lust. 

She was rather sure that her eyes looked much like his, her pupils likely blown wide against her warm amber eyes. 

It was so bizarre to her! Here was her undeniably accomplished, charismatic Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, a man who could have any woman he wanted, and he wanted her. He wanted a frizzy-haired know-it-all who had all but loathed him since her first year and was a muggleborn to boot. 

An ounce of suspicion rose in her, but was shoved to the back of her mind when he spoke. 

“Quite the contrary,” he hummed. “You’ve been a very good girl, Hermione.” With an air of grace that Hermione didn’t think was possible, he perched himself on the corner of her desk. “But you were very quiet today in class... is there any reason for that?”

The way he smirked told her he knew why she’d been distracted.

“There are plenty of reasons why I was quiet,” she told him before shifting awkwardly. Everything down south was beginning to feel rather... _damp_. 

Riddle noticed the small change in position and his eyes blazed excitedly. She was getting anxious. “Hermione, follow me.” He held out his hand to her, which she clasped gently. Her hand was so small in his that she felt rather childlike, and fixed her gaze on the way his long and slender fingers curled completely around her petite hand.

A heavy silence settled between the two of them as they rounded his desk, and the air was thick with expectation. “Bend over the desk.” She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest for a second or two before the reality of what he’d just ordered to do hit her. 

Hermione hesitated, her breath hitching as she searched his eyes for any sign that he was joking. 

“But professor, if I... if I bend over you’ll... you’ll, y-you’ll—” 

“I’ll what?” Riddle raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest and straightening up slightly so he seemed even more intimidating, as if Hermione didn’t barely reach his shoulder in heels.

“You’ll... see me,” she said. “A lot of me...”

He took a step closer to her and backed her up against the desk. As he leaned over, his hot breath tickled her neck and made the wetness and aching between her thighs grow. “And what if that’s what I want, pet?” he murmured. “After all, you are mine... which means every inch of you belongs to me...” One slender finger of his brushed up her thigh, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. But just as the goosebumps had appeared, Riddle pulled his hand away and looked at her expectantly.

A small sigh had escaped Hermione’s lips and she blushed, turning around and bending over the desk as he had instructed. Her knees were shaking and she searched for something she could grab onto to steady herself before her nerves got the best of her. But her hands couldn’t quite reach the other edge of the desk, so she simply held them flat against the cool surface of the desk. 

It was wrong. So very, very wrong. He was her professor! And here she was about to let him view her _womanhood_ in all its glory. 

She cursed the drafty castle when Riddle flipped the back of her skirt up against her lower back and a cool breeze drifted lazy across her exposed skin. But that sensation was nothing compared to that of Professor Riddle gently cupping her sex, his long fingers searching for the sensitive bud nestled at the top of her folds. When he found what he was searching for, Hermione whimpered and bit her lip.

“That’s it,” Riddle whispered in her ear. “Let go, Hermione...” 

And she did. Merlin help her, she did. Hermione focused solely on the sensations filling her body as he touched her in ways that no one had ever done before, instead of thinking about how wrong it was to be moaning for her professor. She became a boneless, quivering heap of _please, sir_ and _don’t stop_ and _oh god_ , and when Riddle was done with her Hermione wasn’t so sure she would be able to stand steadily on her own two feet. 

“You’ve made a mess of yourself, pet,” Tom whispered, wiping his now-wet fingers on the inside of her thigh. His voice was low and rumbled in his chest, and only made Hermione want him to touch her more, against her better judgment.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” Hermione stuttered. She slowly rose from her bent position over Riddle’s desk and turned to face him. “It... I... I couldn’t help it.” Her face grew hot as Riddle almost smiled at her in an almost affectionate way; the expression on his face seemed slightly rehearsed, but it made her nervous and excited all at once.

Without batting an eye, he cupped her chin in one hand and claimed her lips in a heated kiss. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut as her hands rested awkwardly on his chest, feeling the strong muscles tensing beneath his shirt. Tom carefully took her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling on it gently before he bit down hard, drawing a small cry from Hermione. 

“Well, then, perhaps you can help me with something,” he said to her upon pulling away from her.

“What do you need help with?” Hermione asked, brow furrowing slightly. Tom almost laughed aloud at her naïveté. He raised his brows and glanced down at the front of his trousers. The motion drew Hermione’s own gaze downward and she gaped slightly. “O-Oh...”

When she looked down, she could faintly make out the outline of his erection which was clearly straining against the confines of his trousers.

“Sir, I don’t... I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “I shouldn’t be doing this at all, really!” 

And then the reality of what had just occurred came crashing down on her.

“Oh, Merlin! I just... You... We shouldn’t be doing this! I shouldn’t have let you touch me like that, and I definitely shouldn’t be considering touching you—”

“But you are,” Tom stated. “You want to touch me, Hermione. And you can’t deny the fact that you liked it when I touched that sweet, tight little cunt of yours.” 

Hermione gaped at him. “Professor!” she exclaimed. “How dare y-you...” She cut herself off as Tom quickly had a hand up her skirt and two fingers buried inside her, curling just so and making her knees tremble. 

“Do you feel that?” he snarled in her ear, biting down hard on her lobe. Hermione gripped his shoulders for balance, whimpering as he continued to stroke that sensitive spot inside of her. “That’s you surrendering to me, pet. I told you before; you’re mine. And that means even your hot, wet pussy belongs to me too.” A low moan escaped Hermione’s lips and she threw her head back. “You try to act scandalized when I talk like that... but you like it, don’t you pet? You like it when you feel dirty, like you aren’t the perfect little Head Girl.”

“Yes, sir!” Hermione cried.

Tom brought her to another shuddering climax and, for a moment, considering putting her under an Imperius to get her to help him with his own arousal. But when she looked at him with hazy eyes before starting to undo the button of his trousers, he realized that pleasuring her was more than enough of a way to convince her. 

Once his erection was free, however, he saw the nervous, inexperienced girl return. 

Hermione stared for what felt like five whole minutes to her. Some of the girls in her dormitory had seen a cock before and had described it, but seeing one in person was so different from trying to conjure up an image in her head. She also wondered how Riddle compared to other men; he certainly seemed impressive, but she had nothing to compare him to. 

“How do I...?” she looked up at him finally. 

“Wrap your hand around it and stroke it,” Tom instructed, watching with slight amusement as she hesitantly did as she was told. He wrapped his own hand around hers and guided it so she would know what he liked.

Hermione was more focused on watching his face, however. It was amazing to her to watch her domineering professor slowly start to lose control; she liked how his eyes fluttered shut and how his jaw went slack as his breath came out in steady pants. 

When he started to tense, Hermione realized that he had to be close to reaching his own climax. But instead of allowing her to watch and date her curiosity about such things, he ordered her to let go and bend over the desk once more. 

“Sir, what are you—Oh!” Hermione exclaimed in surprise at the sensation of thick, hot spurts of cum coating her behind. 

“There,” Tom purred, running his index and middle finger through his own seed before dipping the coated fingers inside of her. “Do you like how that feels, pet?” Hermione nodded her head and wiggled against his hand. 

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled. 

“Yes, My Lord,” Tom corrected.

“Y-Yes, My Lord,” Hermione repeated. 

Casting a quick Scourgify, Tom quickly had himself and Hermione cleaned up and looking decent as soon as the class of second years came walking in. They were standing perhaps a bit too close to each other, but the closeness was lost on second years. Hermione raised a brow at Tom, wondering how he was going to write off her absence from her next class.

“I’ll write you a pass, Miss Granger,” he told her. “Go ahead and gather your things.”

Hermione did as she was told, taking her books off the desk where an impatient young Slytherin was waiting. Tom met her in the narrow aisle and handed her two slips of paper—one for the professor of her next class, and one for her.

_You will come to my private quarters at nine o’clock this evening._

_This is not a request._

_Tom_

She folded his note and stuck it deep in her pocket and headed on her way with a strange feeling in her stomach that things were never going to be the same; that she had passed a point of no return, as it were. 

And she didn’t know whether to be scared out or her mind or excited. 

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Professor Dumbledore watched her leave Riddle’s classroom from a distance. Spying the bit of parchment sticking out of her robes, he waved his wand and summoned it, capturing it in midair. The note was incriminating, he knew, but professors were allowed to invite students to their rooms; it wasn’t unheard of. But it was the fact that Riddle had signed off as “Tom” in a message to a student that raised Albus’s suspicions. 

He would just have to think ahead of Riddle. While Hermione would not ignore an invitation from any professor, Dumbledore doubted she would prioritize an invitation from her Defence professor over one from the head of her house. 

And if she did, then she was far more gone than he had previously thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! What did you think of that??
> 
> Will Hermione ignore Dumbledore? And what does Tom have planned for her when she comes to his chambers? Has he finally translated that damn book of his?
> 
> Until next time, my wonderful readers!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it’s been a while! Writer’s block is a bitch (just ask my other Tomione fics)! And I don’t think my updating will get any better because I go back to school in two weeks...
> 
> That being said, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!!

Sunlight streamed in through a window. It filled the small room with a hazy, mid-morning glow that was fitting for the early autumn day. Hermione stretched her limbs lazily, humming at the feeling of a featherlight touch on her back. Long elegant fingers splayed out against her skin, making her smile sleepily. The gentle touch made her shiver in recollection of the night before and what those same fingers were capable of doing to her. 

She shifted slightly so she was on her side, tucked away against Tom’s larger frame. “Good morning,” she mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep as she tried not to laugh at Tom’s mussed hair. There was an inkling of pride filling her at the thought that she had done that.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asked, his hand settling at her waist. His brow was furrowed in some evident concern. It seemed slightly funny to Hermione that the man who had taken such thorough control of the night before was worried he could have hurt her.

Hermione ran her hands through his hair and smiled. “I feel fine,” she assured him. A little bit of tenderness shined in Tom’s eyes before he kissed her softly on the lips. Feeling much more awake then, Hermione planted a hand firmly on his chest and shifted him to his back so she could straddle him. “I am wonderful, actually...” 

Tom raised a brow and smirked. “It would seem so...” he grinned, brushing a hand up her torso to wrap it loosely around her neck. 

The little voice in the back of Hermione’s head had been screaming at her since she’d arrived at Tom’s private quarters the night before. But as she felt his erection against her inner thigh, the other little voice in her head screamed completely different things at her. So she ignored the part of her that was reminding her how wrong this all was and took his length in hand, guiding it and rubbing it between her folds. Tom seemed to almost purr beneath her, his eyes locked on her as her head tilted back slightly. 

“Go on, pet,” Tom encouraged. 

Hermione bit her lip slightly as she slowly took his cock inside her inch by inch. A low moan left her parted lips as soon as he was buried inside of her; it still felt strange, she noted, but not nearly as uncomfortable and foreign as it had the night before.

They were soon a mess of breaths and limbs and moans; in the heat of the moment it was hard to tell where one started and the other began. Tom flipped Hermione onto her back and moved inside of her without missing a beat, while her fingers tangled into his hair and gripped like a vice. The tugging only spurred him on, though, and he grabbed at her hips roughly, forcing them off the bed so he could thrust deeper into her.

“Tom, please,” Hermione whined. “Oh Merlin, please...” Once her fingers were untangled from his hair, he pinned her hands above her head with one hand and grit his teeth. From the way she was arching off the bed, he knew it wouldn’t be long before she reached her climax and he would be right behind her. Tom could feel that raw, primal churning deep inside him that made his muscles grow taut and every instinct he tried to subdue in his daily life spark to life. 

“Tom!” Hermione cried, eyes squeezed shut as her body convulsed with her own release; she shuddered, her toes curled, her lips parted in a way that made Tom go dumb for the first time in his life. 

His own orgasm followed right on the heels of hers, Tom’s seed spilling deep inside Hermione’s cunt.

A soft sigh left Hermione as Tom pulled out of her and took her into his arms. He did it not necessarily out of love or affection, but as a need to protect what he saw as his. Still, Hermione didn’t care much about his motivations in those drowsy moments after their lovemaking, and nuzzled up against him. 

“I don’t want this to end,” Hermione admitted quietly. 

It was the truth, as wary as she was to admit it. Rarely had any young man given her the time of day or paid much attention to her outside of attempting to get her to do their homework. To have a man, a grown man, a brilliant, handsome man taking her into his arms and doing things to her that made her clever brain nearly turn off for just a moment made her feel... different. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what the feeling was, exactly, but she knew she didn’t want it to end. That was the truth.

Tom pressed his lips to her forehead and sighed, seeming to ponder something.

“‘Then tell me not, remind me not, of hours which, though forever gone, can still a pleasing dream restore,’” he murmured into her hair. “‘Till Thou and I shall be forgot, and senseless, as the moldering stone which tells that we shall be no more.’”

“Mm... is that... Keats?” Hermione guessed. “Shelley, perhaps?”

“No,” Tom chuckled. “It’s Byron.”

“Of course it is,” Hermione laughed, shifting and propping herself on her elbows to look at him better. 

As soon as she had adjusted slightly, the door to Tom’s bedchamber flew open with such force that it nearly fell from its hinges. Both Hermione and Tom reached for their wands, pointing them in the direction of the entrance. A lazy fog drifted away from the threshold to reveal the very last person Tom or Hermione would want to see that morning.

Albus Dumbledore was standing just beyond the threshold. And he was furious. That much was clear.

“Professor!” Hermione exclaimed, immediately feeling ashamed. “Professor, I—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore stated. “The only person in this room who has some explaining to do is Professor Riddle. Please, make yourselves decent, and Tom... you will be reporting to Headmaster Dippet’s office immediately.”

“But Professor, that’s not fair—” Hermione started to get out of bed, but, remembering the fact that she was as naked as the day she was born, stopped. 

Dumbledore waved his wand and in a tornado of wool and cotton Tom and Hermione were soon on their feet, fully clothed. Hermione thought it was strange that Tom wasn’t putting up much of a fight; perhaps he knew the weight of what he’d been caught doing and had accepted his eminent sacking. Or maybe he was planning something. She was never quite sure what went on in his head. 

“Professor, could we have a moment, please?” Hermione requested. “I have something I want to say to Professor Riddle.”

She could see Professor Dumbledore hesitate. She knew he didn’t want to give them any more time together; not to be cruel, she knew, but to have the whole matter swept away as quickly as possible. Tom continued to say nothing, and Hermione felt some anger toward him for seeming to just accept what was going to happen. 

“You have two minutes,” Dumbledore said before he stepped out of the room. 

There was a pregnant silence between the two of them for what seemed like an eternity. 

“Don’t fight this, Hermione,” Tom instructed. 

“But Tom—”

“Don’t question me, Hermione. You are going to listen to me for once,” he murmured, running a hand through her hair. He drew his wand and pointed it at her wrist. “Whenever you need me, go to the Room of Requirement. It is on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnaby the Barmy. Walk past the area and think of a place you want to see me in. Then,” he murmured a spell and her entire forearm burned for a moment, making Hermione hiss. “Touch this mark.”

Hermione looked at her forearm, which now bore a small Celtic knot. 

“But Tom, you can’t apparate on school grounds,” Hermione reminded. “Why can’t I just come to you instead of the other way around?” 

A hint of mischief shined in Tom’s eyes and he pointed his wand at her mark again. “Of course.”

The mark glowed but didn’t burn as bad as it had before. 

“Tom?” Dumbledore called. “It’s time to go.”

Tom pressed a gentle kiss to Hermione’s forehead before allowing Dumbledore to escort him from his quarters. She ran out after them, watching the two retreating forms until they rounded a corner out of sight. 

All of Hogwarts naturally broke out into gossip upon word getting out about Tom’s firing. Hermione was getting roped into a fair few of them, though most of Gryffindor denied any sort of connection between her and Riddle. 

The story that was making its way around breakfast the following morning was that Riddle hadn’t just slept with Hermione, but that she was pregnant too.

“Honestly, don’t they have anything better to do?” Minerva huffed, glaring at a bunch of Ravenclaws who were clearly whispering about Hermione. She was the only person besides Tom, Dumbledore and Hermione who knew the actual truth; Hermione had been so stressed about everything that she had taken a risk in confiding in her. “It’s not like... well, you know what I mean.”

“Oi, Granger!” One of the Slytherins called to her. “What sort of potion did you have to slip to Riddle in order to seduce one of your betters?”

“Oh, sod off!” Wesley snapped back. “And slither back into your hole while you’re at it!”

Hermione let her eyes wander up toward the head table where they lingered on the empty seat that once was Tom’s. She thought about writing him, but she doubted she would be able to get anything out of the castle without causing any trouble. 

Though as the owls descended with morning mail and a rather elegant snowy owl dropped an envelope on her plate, it appeared she did not have to worry about such things.

“Is it from Professor Riddle?” Minerva asked. Hermione nodded.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I am writing you to inform you of a matter that I fear is of the utmost importance. It concerns you and your strange connection to the book I have finally translated. While I wish I could see you now to tell you about all the implications, I’m afraid there are some... conditions we must observe now._

_I will need you to accompany me during your winter break. I do not care what you have to tell your parents or tell the staff at Hogwarts. We have the potential, between the two of us, to discover one of the most important places in wizarding history._

_If you wish to discuss some of these matters, I will be at my home in London this weekend. All you need to do is touch the symbol on your forearm._

_Yours,_   
_Tom_

_P.S._   
_It goes without saying you must destroy this letter immediately._

_P.P.S._   
_I will be making love to you this weekend one way or another; so please come to me._

Hermione faked a look of outrage and burned the letter right at the table. Wesley jumped back from his pile of bacon at the sight and frowned. 

“Who sent it?” he glowered.

“It’s not important,” Hermione assured him. “Now if we could please get on with things as if everything was normal?”

“If you insist,” Minerva said as the three of them got up to go to their first class. 

There was a lump in Hermione’s throat as she stepped foot in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. An aging ministry official had come in to make sure that the students would all be prepared to pass their exams, and was standing behind Riddle’s desk — Tom’s desk — with a stack of bland-looking textbooks. 

“Come on,” Minerva whispered in her ear. “I know it’s hard. But do you think he’d want your grades to go to shite because he’s not here teaching?”

“You’re right,” Hermione sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnn!
> 
> Such drama! Where will Tom and Hermione be heading during winter break? Will Dumbledore figure them out again? Are there any consequences on their way for Hermione?
> 
> And of course: how hot will the sex be when Tom and Hermione are reunited??? ;)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all I’m going to say is that the last thing Tom and Hermione needed to deal with comes into play. What could that be, I wonder?

Hermione was able to get away about every weekend through October and November to see Tom, much to her surprise. Considering she was Head Girl, she thought that someone would have been keeping a better watch on her since she had duties to fulfill. But when she was at school she was almost meticulous about them, and somehow managed to give weekend patrols to the Slytherin prefects. It was almost too convenient. 

It was almost like she had done that on purpose.

But as she woke up one morning in December just seven days before she was to go see Tom and spend the break with him with a terrible headache and that nauseous feeling in her, she groaned. There was some sort of funny flu that was going around the school, and it would appear she’d gotten it. Minerva had had a small bout of it the week before, so Hermione figured she’d picked it up from her.

Tugging on her uniform and robes, Hermione made her way down to breakfast, hoping she would start to feel better if she ate and it wasn’t truly the flu. 

But when she smell of greasy bacon hit her nose, her stomach lurched. 

Hermione ran to a bathroom and dry heaved into a toilet, silently cursing Minerva for exposing her to the stupid flu. It was the last thing she needed. And if she wasn’t better by the time she arrived at Tom’s, she doubted he would be willing to touch her like she needed.

After she was done ridding her stomach of its few contents, Hermione started making her way down to the infirmary. When she got there, it was obvious chaos. There had to have been some sort of early morning Quidditch practice gone awry because there were students in both green and red in various states of injury.

The mediwitch, Madame Blackman, turned and looked at Hermione with an expression of pure exasperation.

“Miss Granger! Please tell me you don’t have any broken bones or sprained wrists?” she huffed.

“No, just the flu,” she said.

“Oh, easy enough,” Madame Blackman sighed. “Here. Take it as needed, but no more than three times a day. If you’re not feeling better in a week or so, come back.” She shoved a bottle of anti-nausea potion on her hand, then scuttled back to her other patients. 

“Bottoms up,” Hermione mumbled to herself before taking a drink from the bottle.

*****

Abraxas felt rather annoyed with his friend as he stood on his stoop. Why Tom refused to buy himself a home in wizarding London was beyond him, and Abraxas always felt rather... grimy... when he was forced to call on Tom at home. Not that it wasn’t a lovely home; the exchange rate of galleons to muggle pounds was rather generous. But still.

He rang the bell and stood back, waiting for the lone housekeeper to come and let him in.

“Ah!” the portly old woman exclaimed upon seeing him. “Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Riddle is in his study. Shall I see you up there?”

“No need, Mrs. Jones,” Abraxas assured. “I know the way.”

When he reached Tom’s study, Abraxas frowned deeply at the sight he happened upon. He knew that Tom was taking his firing from Hogwarts rather poorly, but it was reaching the point where Abraxas would accuse him of self-martyring. 

The study itself was a mess; dirty dishes and used tea cups were scattered about, which was a sign to Abraxas that Tom likely was spending all his time there. But Tom himself was just as disheveled as the room. His hair was mussed in places, almost haphazardly, and he had a stubbly little beard and mustache growing in. What’s more, his clothes were wrinkled and even had a few suspicious stains on them.

“Merlin,” Abraxas muttered. “Good day, My Lord. How... are you faring?”

Tom scowled. “How do you think I’m faring, Abraxas?” he snapped. “Please tell me you’ve brought me good news. It’s taken you long enough.” 

Abraxas pulled the files that Tom was referring to from inside his robes. “They tried to cover everything up with red tape,” he said as he placed the information on Tom’s desk. “I had to call in more than a few favors to get this information through without any questions. And Dumbledore still probably knows that I have them.”

“Damn the crooked-nosed old fool to hell,” Tom muttered as he began to read the files. “How’s the boy? Your... Lucius, was it?” The now bespectacled Tom glanced up at his follower. It wasn’t like he actually cared, but it was uncomfortable trying to read while Abraxas just stared.

“He’s well, My Lord,” Abraxas assured. “He just turned three months old the other day. Gives his mother a fair bit of trouble, though.”

Tom snorted. “Better you than me,” he said. Truly, he knew he would make a right awful father.

A silence fell over the two men as Tom read. As he did, his eyebrows seemed to shoot up into his hairline. Upon reaching the end, he rose to his feet and shoved he papers back at Abraxas. A hurried wave of his wand cleaned the study, and Tom breezed past him toward the water closet. 

“She’s the key!” Tom shouted out to Abraxas, who was waiting in the hall. “Abraxas, I’ve been looking and looking to the last piece of the puzzle... and it’s her!”

“The key to what, My Lord?” Abraxas asked.

The sound of water running and the splashing of someone climbing into a bathtub came from the room. 

“The book. She’s the key. She’s how I’m going to get to Avalon, Abraxas,” Tom sighed. “Over a thousand years of wizarding secrets... kept away from the rest of us.” It was the closest Tom had felt to giddy in... well, forever. “And now they’re going to be mine.”

It was almost too good. 

And Hermione would be arriving for winter break in less than a week. 

Too good.

*****

Hermione tugged slightly at the waistband of her new smoking pants, wondering why on earth they weren’t fitting her quite right. It didn’t make sense to her at all; she’d ordered the same size she’d always been from the same muggle catalogue that she usually got her clothes from. All it would take to make them fit better was a quick adjustment spell, but she didn’t have time and tugged her sweater down over her too tight waistband instead and steered her trolley through the portal between Platform 9-3/4 and the rest of the world.

Tom was meeting her on Platform 10 and then they would make their way to his house in London. Hermione had lied to her parents for the first time in her life and said she had been invited by a professor to help him in his research that winter, giving her a free pass to stay with him without her parents getting too suspicious. 

When she laid eyes on him, Hermione’s heart almost stopped. Even though she saw him almost every weekend, she never was ready for how handsome he was.

“Hello, love,” he greeted, taking control of her trolley for her. “Are you ready for a nice holiday?”

She nodded and fell into step with him, trying to ignore the little bit of upset stomach she was experiencing. The station was filled with plenty of smells, and the combination of them all was making her a bit queasy. 

Her uneasy expression didn’t miss Tom’s keen gaze. He took the time to inspect her appearance, noting that she looked like she’d gained a little weight. Such a thing didn’t bother him; he always disliked men who gave their partners and wives some ridiculous standards to live up to. Though he also noticed that her hair looked longer and shinier, and her fingernails were long as well. But she was also looking a bit green in the face.

His mouth felt dry as he swallowed. Something was wrong. Or perhaps not even wrong, but something was different. 

“You seemed rather excited about something in your letters,” she said, drawing him from his thoughts. “Like you made some important discovery or something.” Hermione managed to hail a cab upon stepping outside and Tom started loading its trunk with her things. 

“I did,” he stated. “I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

They climbed into the back of the cab and Hermione looked at him, raising a brow. “Dinner?” she grinned. 

“I figured you deserved a treat for the start of your holiday,” Tom explained.

Hermione simply hummed and nestled into his side, her arm looped through his as the cabbie drove off in the direction of Tom’s home. The whole city of London seemed perfectly festive as it zoomed by; Hermione could see shoppes with garland and lights, children running ahead of parents to get a look at some new toy in a display and even a rogue caroler or two. She thought of the two presents tucked away in her trunk and hoped that Tom would like them; it had been difficult picking out both a Christmas and a birthday gift for him. 

Compared to the rest of the city, Tom’s townhouse looked like a brick and mortar version of Ebenezer Scrooge. She couldn’t see a Christmas tree through the parlor window and there was no wreath on the door.

“Well,” she chuckled. “This won’t do at all.” 

“What?” Tom questioned as he hauled her trunk up the steps. “What won’t do?” He caught sight of the expression on her face and frowned. “Oh no. You’re not one of those people who care too much about all that Christmas nonsense, are you?”

Hermione just smiled. “As it just so happens, I am. Before dinner, we’re going to go get a tree and maybe a wreath as well,” she said.

Tom bit his tongue, knowing it was better to just keep her happy. 

“Your wish is my command,” he teased. 

And so Hermione saw to making sure that Tom’s house looked much more festive than it had. Mrs. Jones watched the young lady fuss over the tree and how she bossed Tom around when trying to get the star to sit just right. 

“Just a little bit more to the right,” Hermione ordered. “There! Just perfect.”

“You are difficult to please,” Tom grumbled, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her neck. Hermione hummed as he pressed another kiss there and another. “Though I think I know a way you could please me before we go to dinner...”

Though Hermione wrinkled her nose. The smell of his cologne was making her nausea start up again.

“Mm, love?” 

“Yes?” Tom murmured. 

“Your cologne,” Hermione sighed. “It’s making me sick...”

Mrs. Jones watched as Hermione dashed away to the first floor water closet; she heard her retching and stood outside with a fresh towel for her. 

“Miss Granger,” she said, knocking on the door. 

The door opened slightly and Jones let herself in. “Are you alright? Mr. Riddle’s cologne never seemed to bother you much before,” she stated. 

“It’s alright. I’ve just been sick... god, for the last month or so,” she groaned. 

Mrs. Jones raised a brow. 

“Miss Granger, if you don’t mind my asking, but... when was the last time you had your monthlies?” she questioned. 

Hermione froze. She dropped the towel as her hand flew to her mouth. 

She hadn’t had a period since September! How could she miss it? How could she not realize?

“Hermione?” Tom called. “We need to get ready for dinner!”

“I’ll be up in a minute!” she shouted.

Tom had made reservations at The Ivy, a popular spot in Covent Garden. He’d chosen it because he knew Hermione would like going to a spot that had been frequented by some of her favorite celebrities. It also seemed like a good place to tell her the news that he’d finally decided the book and that she would be important in finding Avalon. He wasn’t going to tell her about her heritage; it would probably become clear to her soon enough.

She sat down across from him in the booth, the low lighting making her simple makeup bring out her natural glow. And the green dress she had chosen to wear out made him feel somewhat smug; she had picked that color just for him, he knew.

“So, my important news,” Tom began after they had gotten their drinks. 

“I have some news for you too,” Hermione said softly. 

“Oh?” Tom raised his whiskey on the rocks to his lips. “Do tell?”

Hermione licked her lips and seemed to wring her hands under the table. “I... I’m pregnant, Tom.”

The tumbler full of whiskey crashed to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Tom. You never take the news of Hermione being pregnant very well, do you?
> 
> How do you think our favorite Slytherin is going to react to his imminent fatherhood?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I’m alive! Sorority nonsense has kept me busy af, but here’s some Tomione goodness for y’all.
> 
> ALSO I promise I will update University Blues soon, and be on the lookout for my Tomione Smut Fest piece.

Hermione was afraid he was going into shock. Tom was staring at her, but saying nothing. He wasn’t blinking. The poor waiter was calling a busboy over to clean up the drink and broken tumbler on the ground. She quietly cursed her apparent pregnancy mood swings because she felt tears pricking her cheeks at his silence. When Jones had brought her to the conclusion that she was undeniably pregnant, Hermione knew Tom wouldn’t take the news very well, but she hadn’t imagined complete and utter silence. 

“Tom? Say something, please,” she murmured. “Please.”

He finally blinked, and sat back in his seat. The way he was looking at her seemed so different compared to how he normally did. 

“You’re sure?” he asked. 

“I... I haven’t had my monthlies since September,” she admitted. Tom’s hand slammed down on the table and she jumped, feeling rather small and timid all of a sudden. Her arms wrapped around herself and she avoided his gaze.

“You’re going to get rid of it. You must finish your schooling,” Tom told her. 

“I thought about that,” Hermione admitted. “And you’re not wrong, Tom. But... you don’t feel some sort of attachment to this baby? It’s our child, Tom.” 

“You’re being ridiculous, Hermione,” he chided.

“Maybe I am,” Hermione agreed. “But other than for the sake of my education — something I could go back and finish at any time — give me one good reason why we shouldn’t have this baby?”

“We’re not married,” Tom fired back immediately.

“That could be changed.”

Surprised at her words, Tom sat back. Marriage was never something he had considered, even with Hermione. It got in the way; he’d seen it firsthand watching Abraxas try and juggle his duties to the Ministry, his duties to Tom and his duties to his wife and son. But there was something good that could come out of all of this; something that Abraxas had used to justify his starting a family so soon. 

“I have a legacy,” Abraxas had told him. “My son will always bear my name, and, with any luck, his son after him. It’s a living, breathing legacy.”

“Would you really want to marry me?” Tom inquired. 

Hermione nodded. “I would,” she replied. “Though... you’d have to meet my parents.”

“And how do you expect me to explain all of this to them?” Tom snorted. “‘Hello Mrs and Dr. Granger. I’m Tom Riddle and I would like to marry your daughter, who just so happened to be my student when I started sleeping with her and got her pregnant.’ Yes, Hermione, that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“It’s only proper that you get my father’s permission,” Hermione sighed. “They live only an hour outside of the city. We can go visit them tomorrow.”

With a groan, Tom reluctantly agreed. The rest of the meal was mostly enjoyed in silence, save for Hermione’s exclamations when Laurence Olivier himself sat down just a few tables away from them. Once dinner was paid for, they returned home and Hermione called her parents, telling them that she was bringing someone to meet them tomorrow. 

After getting off the phone, Hermione went into the bedroom and changed into a simple blue nightgown. Tom was already in bed, reading a book quietly. She climbed in beside him, nestling into his side and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

As she moved her lips further and further upward, Tom took off his glasses and looked at her.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he murmured, cupping her chin and stealing a kiss. 

“I was hoping I could get my handsome soon-to-be husband to make love to me,” she grinned, running a hand up beneath his pajama shirt before kissing him back. 

“Say no more,” Tom growled, moving on top of her without another word.

Hermione was actually surprised by how much she really wanted and almost needed sex; as soon as his hands were roaming her body and shoving the sleeves of her nightgown down, Hermione could feel the warmth and wetness pooling between their thighs. When Tom’s hand slipped slowly up her thigh to feel her sex, he even raised his brows at her. 

“You really need this, don’t you?” he asked. Hermione nodded and wiggled against his hand. His hot breath tickled her neck as he leaned down to bite her playfully. “Good.”

“Please, Tom,” Hermione breathed. Her own hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pajama pants to stroke his length, which was already hard and throbbing for her. She grinned when a groan slipped from his lips and he reached down to tug his pants down. In his own rush to get inside of her, Tom ripped her flimsy silk panties off before burying himself inside her. 

Hermione groaned and arched off the bed immediately, her eyes squeezed shut and lips parted in a soft “O” shape. 

Tom nearly pulled all the way out of her before snapping his hips forward again roughly. Hermione gasped and whimpered, but wrapped her legs around his hips. His grip was tight on her hips as he moved inside her, so tight that he was fairly certain he was going to leave bruises. But the thought of leaving his mark on her in a literal sense was one that Tom certainly liked entertaining. The urge to do so was soon overwhelming, and he began to bite and suck at any part of her skin that he could reach. He left behind blooming bruises of purplish-red that stood out against her skin. 

When he remembered they were going to see her parents the following morning, Tom wished he hadn’t put some on her neck as she would likely magic them away and deny him the delight he took in seeing her go about her day with his mark on her. 

“Oh god,” Hermione keened beneath him. “Tom... Don’t stop...” Her walls were fluttering around his cock, and the cries from her lips were getting more and more intense. 

Tom grit his teeth and grabbed a fistful of her curls, tugging her head back sharply. 

“That’s it, pet,” he snarled through grit teeth. “Beg. Beg for it. You know what you want...” 

“Fuck me!” she whined. “Please, my lord, fuck me so hard I... oh... won’t leave the bed tomorrow...!” Her cries brought a devilish smile onto Tom’s face. But she whimpered in disappointment when he pulled out of her without warning.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he ordered. 

Hermione shakily did as she was told, crying out again when Tom thrust back into her. She wasn’t always the biggest fan of being taken from behind, but she just needed him so much that it felt great. 

He took her hard and fast now, with her orgasm leaving her a trembling, quivering mess in no time. But Tom wasn’t through yet.

With a bit of maneuvering, he sat back, with Hermione on top. His cock was still buried in her cunt, and he wrapped one hand around her throat while the other teased her clit. She whimpered and wriggled against him.

“You thought I was through with you?” he whispered in her ear. “No, no, pet. You’re through when I say you’re through... now be a good girl and ride me.”

Hermione rolled her hips, doing as she was told. She managed to come one last time before Tom came with a soft, breathy groan. Climbing off of him, Hermione rolled back onto her side of the bed with a groan of her own. Tom plopped down on his pillows and pulled Hermione into his arms, tucking her head under his chin before they both fell asleep.

*****

The following morning, the pair were up before sunrise to get ready to go see the Grangers. While Hermione put on her dress and makeup — taking extra care to cover up the little bruises Tom had put all over her neck — she told him about her parents. 

“Mother will love you,” she assured. “Father will likely be a bit... icy toward you, but don’t take it personally.”

“Hmm,” Tom chuckled. “I’ll try not to. It’s not like I deflowered his little girl or anything.”

“I’d prefer it if you try not to bring that up,” Hermione sighed. “Also, it would probably be best if they don’t know that you were my professor. I rarely talked about you when I would come home, so I don’t think they’ll recognize your name, but if they ask... we’ll say you were apprenticed under our Defence teacher. That way it isn’t so...”

“Scandalous?” Tom offered, kissing her lips softly. 

“I was going to say ‘wildly inappropriate,’ but yes,” she teased. After touching up her lipstick one more time, Hermione rose to her feet. “How do I look?”

Tom knew she had picked the slimming black dress on purpose; it hid even the small amount of weight she’d put on already. She also looked much older and sophisticated in the form-fitting sheath, like she was actually closer to his age. He motioned for her to give a little turn and he grinned wolfishly.

“You look good enough to eat,” he said. “Shall we?” 

They went downstairs to get their coats and hats. Once Hermione was wrapped in her grey mink stole and had her burgundy hat pinned into her hair just so, she took Tom’s arm and apparated them both to the tiny village the Grangers called home. 

When they reached the idyllic little house that Hermione had grown up in, Tom felt like he understood much more about her than he had before. From the cobbled walk to the front door to the fence and hedge around the property, he could see why she was both so idealistic but also so set in her ways. 

Right before they reached the door, it flew open and an older woman who resembled Hermione strongly waved to them both.

“Oh!” Mrs. Granger exclaimed. “Hermione! And you must be Tom! Come in, come in! I’ve just put on a pot of tea and there are some biscuits and cakes in the kitchen that you’re more than welcome to.” She ushered them in and Hermione and Tom hung up their coats and hats on the coat rack before being steered into the kitchen. 

Hermione helped herself to a small biscuit in the shape of a snowflake, nibbling on it as her mother poured them tea.

“Do you take milk, Tom?” Mrs. Granger inquired.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. 

“There’s my girl!” A reedy, but pleasant, voice called from the doorway. Hermione set her cookie down on her saucer and turned, her face brightening. 

Dr. Granger was a tall man with a bit of a belly and thinning reddish-blond hair. His daughter held little resemblance to him save for a similar smattering of freckles across his nose. But when Tom watched at how fondly the two embraced, he swallowed difficultly. He wasn’t sure he could tell the man that he was the one who had gotten his daughter pregnant.

“When Hermione called and told us she was bringing someone to meet us, you have no idea how excited we were,” Mrs. Granger explained as she sat down at the kitchen table opposite Tom. “And now that it’s a young man, well...”

“Though you’re much older than Hermione, aren’t you?” Dr. Granger questioned as he sat down at the head of the small table. 

“Yes, sir,” Tom answered. “There... I’m about nine years older than your daughter.”

Mrs. Granger tutted at her husband. “There’s a seven year difference between you and me, Andrew. Two years isn’t much more,” she argued. “So tell us, Tom; how did you come to meet Hermione?”

“I was apprenticed under Hogwarts’ Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Hermione spent a lot of time helping me grade first and second year papers, and... I was charmed,” he said.

“So will you be getting that position when the current professor retires?” Dr. Granger asked.

“No, sir,” Tom stated, gritting his teeth slightly. “I’ll be working for the Ministry soon as an Auror. A sort of wizarding police officer, you see. They make good salaries; about the same as a professor at Hogwarts.”

“Tom’s an accomplished curse-breaker,” Hermione informed.

After a few more minutes of small-talk, Andrew Granger had decided he was tired of beating around the bush. 

“I think it’s clear enough to me that you’re good enough for my daughter, Tom,” he stated. “So I’m just going to get straight to the point: did you come here to ask for your permission to marry Hermione?”

“I did, sir,” Tom confirmed.

“And there’s a... a little situation, too, mum and dad,” Hermione added quietly. Her hand subconsciously rested on her stomach. “I... We... We’re expecting.” 

Dr. Granger’s eyes narrowed while his wife clapped her hands together. 

“Then we’ve no time to waste!” Mrs. Granger exclaimed. “I’ll go call on Pastor Thomas tomorrow and see if we can’t have everything all settled by New Year’s. It’ll be a small wedding, but you’re all welcome to invite your friends; you’ll both need witnesses, of course. Oh! And Hermione, we will need to go into London and get you a dress sooner than later...”

“Of course, mum,” Hermione laughed. “Whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy endinggggg
> 
> Or maybe not???  
> Dun dun dunnnn

**Author's Note:**

> Any ideas about what Hermione’s detention is going to look like?
> 
> Also, “Can’t I?” by Nat King Cole reached the height of its popularity in the UK by early October 1953, so it probably would have been playing a lot on muggle radios like the one Hermione smuggled in!
> 
> Let me know what you all think about this idea and whether or not it’s worth continuing! I’m always open to suggestions or ideas as well.


End file.
